Fill in the Blank
by allfandoms3
Summary: Clint's new life began and ended with the squeeze of a trigger. That's putting it simply, but it's all the stuff in-between that matters. And that story; in which Clint falls in love, makes mistakes, gets beat up and has a whole bucket load of bad luck. Well, that takes a lot longer to tell.
1. Chapter 1

****February 12th 2006****

Clint took a deep breath and let it out slowly; lining up his shot.

If he was honest, it would be difficult to miss. The target was a stout, tubby man with very little neck and a huge head. He struck an overbearing figure in the evening light, a fake grin plastered on his ruddy face as he drank with his rich friends. He wasn't a young man, already balding; the patch at the back of his curly head glinting in the sun like a shiny, flesh coloured bulls eye.

He was a sniper's dream come true.

This evening the target was attending a colleague's dinner party and had dressed for the occasion. Clint watched as he lounged around with a generous glass of champagne in his hand, not a care in the world. His dress shirt strained against the swell of his stomach, the buttons threatening to give way under the stress.

Clint took in another deep breath, gauging the distance and aiming carefully. There was no scope to aid his shot; after all he only owned a standardised pistol which wasn't ideal in the slightest. The gun wasn't built for this but Clint was certain he could make it work. He had to. This was he start of a whole new life for him. He couldn't afford to fuck this up. He wouldn't.

A chilly gust of wind blustered straight through the thin material of Clint's shirt and he shivered, his fingers numb and his nose tinged red. Adjusting himself a little, Clint tried to get a clearer view of the gardens below. He was about three storeys above them on a neighbouring apartment complex's rooftop. It was near impossible for anyone down below to spot him. But still, Clint couldn't shake the feeling that someone was watching him and it was making him twitchy.

Clint knew his hands were shaking a little but he tightened their grip on his gun and ignored it. With a newfound determination he concentrated on his breathing; focusing until the world narrowed down. Shrinking to just him, his gun and his target. Breathe in. Breathe out.

Breathe in. Breathe out. A little to the left. Breathe in. Breathe out.

Squeeze the trigger.

The crack of gunfire shattered the silent evening air and Clint winced, his fingers stinging from the recoil. He didn't wait to watch the man fall, sprinting across the open rooftop, the screams of horror ringing in his ears as he went. Next time he would be faster.

His breathing was harsh and far too loud as it echoed against the stairwell walls as he ran. Taking the stairs two at a time Clint very nearly dropped his gun when he shoved it in the back of his pants. He only just managed to bring himself to a halt before he made it to the entrance hall that was thankfully vacant. In a disorganised panic Clint adjusted his ratty old T-shirt and jeans to hide his gun a little better before stepping out into the crowded street. Terrified party guests were already swarming onto the sidewalk; an effective distraction for his escape. Clint made an impressive show of gawking at the distressed party-goers as he passed by.

He thought he was doing a pretty good job too, even if his heart was thumping against his ribs far too fast. His hands still trembled and Clint irritably shoved them into his pockets. He didn't allow his mind to wander to the man now lying five storeys above him, gurgling and choking, drowning in his own blood because of Clint's job well done.

A sour taste entered his mouth at the thought and Clint ignored it. He felt a little dizzy, a little queasy, but nothing else. This one had gone far better than the last two. At least this time he hadn't been seen, he hadn't dropped his gun, nor had he immediately chucked up his breakfast after the deed was done. Yes, he decided, almost proud of himself. Much better.

People said it got easier the more you did it. For his third attempt Clint thought he was doing rather well. He was a natural, if you will. Barney would be proud.

The thought brought the smallest of smiles to his face.

It was probably through his distraction that he didn't see the girl coming until she was directly on top of him, slamming into him at a run. "Hey! Watch where you're- God, are you okay?"

The girl was short and slight, a teenager of around sixteen with tears dripping down her cheeks and terror in her eyes. Curly brown hair flopped across her pretty face, her breathing shaky and uneven. Red-rimmed eyes looked up at Clint with a startling relief that froze him in place. Without warning she surged forwards, wrapping her skinny arms around his waist in an astonishingly tight bear-hug. "Mama, she's g-gone," she cried into his chest, her voice pathetic and small. "I can't find m-my mama."

Stumbling a little under the sheer force of the hug, Clint found himself stiffly patting her on the shoulder. He was unsure what else to do or how to pry her off without upsetting her further. She cried silently for a few more moments until she suddenly tensed under his hands. After an awkward second she released him, looking heartbroken but, to Clint's relief, no longer crying. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, sniffling softly. "Oh my god, s-sorry, sir. I- I thought you were someone else," she said, her pale cheeks flushed pink with mortification.

"Its fine," Clint forced out after a moment, still in shock at the unexpected touch. He couldn't remember the last time someone had hugged him like that. It had probably been Barney, years ago. Years before Barney had learned to hate him. God those had been good days.

The strange girl blushed harder, nodding quickly before scampering past him, rounding a corner and disappearing from sight. Clint stared after her for a long moment, confused and rooted to the spot. That is until a blast of biting wind tore through his clothes, snapping him out of it and he turned, sprinting off in the opposite direction.

Clint was unfamiliar with huge cities like New York. After a childhood spent in a town that could hardly boast a corner shop, the sheer amount of people could never failed to amaze him. If there was a place for him anywhere, he thought New York would be where he'd find it. As the advertisements promised this was the city where dreams come true. People rose and fell at the drop of a hat under the spotlight of a thousand eyes and Clint adored it.

That didn't mean he knew what he was doing.

The truth was he was new to the whole 'Hit-man' thing. Actually he was new to the whole 'murder' thing in general, really. Nineteen years old and he'd never had a 'normal' job in his life. Like most people his age, he'd thought bussing tables or bartending to be among his first options, not shooting rich jackasses in the head. Yet, here he was, on his way to collect his first pay check from his new 'job'.

He wasn't complaining.

Clint hesitantly approached the meeting point; his hands shoved deep into his jean pockets for warmth. The place was not far from the harbour, the air heavy with stench of spilled oil and the salt from the Hudson pricked at Clint's nose despite the distance. The warehouse itself was abandoned and boy did it show; the once sliver tin on the roof now the burnt orange of rust and the windows smashed in years ago. Striking graffiti scrawled up and down the huge concrete blocks that made up the walls.

Though, when Clint slipped inside he found it wasn't as deserted as it might appear. Inside the vast open space was a group of men, four Clint counted, dressed in casual clothing and talking in low voices while they waited. Clint noted that it was pretty strange that so many people were needed for a momentary transaction. Still he dismissed the thought. Confident in his own abilities and spurred on by the promise of a full belly and clothes that weren't worn through rags, Clint didn't even hesitate.

The group fell silent when he waltzed in and one broke away to meet him. The guy was a tall white fucker with dark hair gelled back in an ugly modern re-vamp of an older style. Still, he was young, younger than Clint, maybe 17? He had a wide, square face and held himself slightly slumped, like he had a bad back or something. It took Clint a few slow seconds to realise that this was the guy's attempt at looking like a gangster in front of his friends. And that...that was just sad.

When they met each other in the middle Clint gave him a confident smirk nonetheless. "Hey man, I'm here for my money."

The guy looked him up and down, unimpressed by what he saw. Clint could say that the feeling was entirely mutual. The dude gave off a jaw dropping air of spoiled brat; you could practically smell the trust fund on him. The watch on this prick's wrist could keep Clint fed and sheltered for a month easy. But Clint didn't care who his client was, so long as he got his money.

"The job's done?" the kid asked doubtfully, an almost expectant look on his face.

"What do you want, his head on a platter? It's done. Give me my money so I can get out of here," Clint insisted, drawing himself up to his full height though the kid was a good two inches taller than him. Clint couldn't help but feel his intimidation tactics were a little below par for someone who just killed a man for money.

He could see the kid's friends watching with interest, hovering ominously in his peripheral vision. A gun could be seen poking out of one guy's pocket. Clint frowned, trying not to allow his fear to show on his face.

"Sure, whatever man," the kid said in a mocking imitation of Clint's accent, glancing to his friends with a playful smirk. But when he turned to Clint the grin dropped from his face, dead serious. "You didn't tell anyone else about this, right? You're the only one who knows?"

As soon as the words left that kid's mouth Clint noticed two of the guy's friends suddenly weren't where Clint thought they were. A jolt of panic shooting through him Clint had the good sense to turn and bolt for the door. But of course, there they were, the missing thug-wannabes in all their hulking glory, blocking his exit with twirling bowie knives.

His heart thundering in his ears Clint reached into his pants to grab his gun, ready to kill some bitches. To his horror his hand closed on thin air.

This entire situation was suddenly far worse than he had first thought.

"Fuck," Clint swore angrily, just before something hard struck on the back of the head, black spots bursting across his vision. Dazed, Clint turned to face his attacker, a weak hand held up to protect his face. Another blow slammed into him, this time aimed at his face and the impact sent him to his knees with an agonised groan. A third, and final swing connected with his temple and he crumpled like a puppet with the strings cut.

He did not get up.

Breathing was becoming more of a challenge with every second that ticked by. Clint's chest ached with every inhale. He was pretty sure he had a few either broken or bruised ribs which were always a special kind of fun. Droplets of sweat and blood trickled down the side of his face as he made an effort not to move, his harsh panting echoing around the room.

Of course, none of this was enough to shut him up.

"Honestly fellas," he wheezed breathlessly, "I was expecting more from you than th- mmf." Clint doubled over in pain as one of the men landed another solid punch to his abdomen. The movement jostled his ribs and ripped the skin around the gunshot wound in his shoulder. He barely bit back the scream that clawed its way up his throat.

Everything hurt. His concussions had concussions and the amount of blood that covered his shirt was more worrying than he was willing to admit. Safe to say, internally, Clint was starting to freak out. There was no hope for escape, and he knew it. Which really fucking sucked.

Taking a deep breath, Clint tried his best not to focus on that because he refused to spend his last few moments tormenting himself over his own fate. That was just ridiculous. Instead, Clint tried to figure out the mystery of his disappearing firearm.

There was only one possible culprit, or at least in his mind. His only question was; why?

She was a street kid, he assumed, which didn't help matters. After all, maybe he could see through it if she'd snagged his wallet or his ID card too, but hell even _that_ made little sense.

Clint had spent his fair share of time on the streets; he knew the type of person who made a good target. Some upper class moron who's filthy rich enough not to keep a protective hand over their pocket at all times. They were more plentiful than you would believe, especially around this part of town and an easy meal ticket if you knew what you were doing. Still, it was a bill Clint certainly didn't fit. So...why?

He was almost honoured to witness such a professional at work. Her acting was Oscar worthy and her fingers so light he hadn't felt the gun leave the back of his pants. It was an astonishing feat he definitely couldn't have pulled off at her age. Hell he may even grudgingly respect her for it if he weren't far too bitter for that.

In his defence, the kid took his fucking gun. Clint reserved the right to be a little petty when the girl's party trick had left him bleeding out while these idiots played at being the criminals they saw on TV. Not even good TV criminals either; the cheesy one-liner sprouting kind.

If this was how Clint Barton died he was going to be so fucking pissed.

Someone grabbed a handful of Clint's damp hair and yanked his head back, forcing him to look the leader directly in his beady little eyes. They'd been introduced a few minutes ago, his name was Karl. Not a name that struck fear into Clint's heart, that was for sure. The movement was followed by the hard press of a gun against the skin of Clint's temple which, honestly, was just overkill at this point.

"Hey, are you listening to me? I swear to God I'll shoot you dead right now, fucker, listen up," he shouted in Clint's face. "Answer the fucking question."

Clint frowned as the kid swam in and out of focus and vaguely wondered what the hell the guy was talking about. His thoughts were slow and murky like his mind was coated in a thick, impenetrable layer of oil. Which...probably wasn't a positive sign.

"Oh yeah...right," Clint mumbled under his breath, blinking in an attempt to clear his vision. "Wha's the question, 'gain?"

He received a smack across the face for his efforts, which _really_ didn't help matters.

The gun pressed even harder into his temple. "Who the fuck did you tell?! Answer me goddamnit or you're a dead man. I swear," Karl promised, his face flushed and his other hand shaking where he held Clint by the hair.

To his credit, Clint held back his disbelieving laugh.

He'd seen how Karl had turned a ghastly shade of grey after he'd shot Clint in the shoulder after one tiny joke about his mom went a little bit too far. It was obvious Karl didn't have the balls to follow through with his threats. After all, a straight up head shot was liable to send him into a dead faint - which would be as ironic as it would be pathetic.

"Well, he was really tall - or wait, maybe he was short. Between?" Clint hissed a laugh with a touch more hysteria than he would like. "Hey, maybe he wasn't a he at all. I don't pay attention to these things."

The murky blur of Karl's face didn't seem pleased with the answer.

"Just shoot him already, Karl. We need to get out of here," one of his friends piped up, sounding impatient. "He's probably bluffing anyway."

"And if he isn't?" Karl argued, his face once again turning that awful shade of grey as his eyes drifted to Clint's blood soaked shirt.

Clint strained against his restraints to push himself closer to Karl's ugly face, his ribs screaming in protest at the movement. Hell, any closer and he could've head-butted the bastard. "Then you fuckers are goin' down with me," he growled, low and angry.

Karl's lip curled in hatred and Clint fell back, grinning at a job well done. "He might have more information," Karl tried, but the excuse was weak and his friends didn't buy it. Neither did Clint, honestly.

"No, I really don't," he supplied helpfully, a kind of numbness settling over his entire body. It felt wonderful, almost euphoric. He closed his eyes against the fuzzy world, exhausted. He felt strangely accepting of everything, which was never something he thought he'd be. Must be the concussion talking, or the blood loss, or possibly both. "Just fucking shoot me already."

He could hear Karl's harsh breathing, his friend - now having gained a little confidence - offering words of encouragement now and again. The cold press of Karl's pistol was back again and Clint couldn't find it in himself to care. Somewhere inside himself he knew he should be fighting it, but he was too tired to do anything about that now.

Then, to Clint's surprise the tension in the air was split - not with a gunshot - but a loud, sickening crack, followed by another a few seconds later. There was a terrified shout and then another indiscernible popping sound. Karl's friend stopped talking mid-sentence.

Karl's breathing had picked up tenfold. The gun left Clint's forehead and two shots were fired; the sound ringing painfully in Clint's ears.

When Clint managed to force his eyes to open, he was just in time to see a teenage girl violently twist Karl's head at an unnatural angle. The sickening snap of bone echoed off the walls before his lifeless body fell to the ground with a dull thud.

It was the girl from earlier, a dead look in her eyes as she stalked towards Clint without a second of hesitation. If he had the energy to move, Clint imagined he would've strained against the ropes that twisted around his body. Fought for his life, even _said_ something. As it was, he couldn't. He just followed the girl's progress with his eyes, waiting for the inevitable.

Hey, on the plus side, this was a far more interesting way to go than the standard job-gone-wrong shtick. He got to be killed by a Spy Kids reject. Lucky him, right?

When she reached him, the girl's eyes raked over the blood drenching his shirt, the clammy sweat on his skin and the bruises swelling at his face. Her face was completely expressionless, unperturbed.

Her hands came to either side of his face, looking him deep in the eyes and Clint's breathing quickened on instinct. He waited for her to jerk his neck in a direction his neck should not go. A quick snap and his life would be gone. Clint wasn't sure he'd ever felt so breakable before, so fragile.

In a motion so quick Clint hardly even saw it she ripped his shirt open and studied his bullet wound, her face still completely emotionless. Like she saw this shit every day.

If he'd been feeling even a little better Clint would probably have made a joke about being a classy lady and not putting out on the first date. As it was, all he could do was let out an embarrassing whimper of fear when he saw her remove a small, wicked looking knife from her hoodie pocket. Clint's heart dropped to his mouth. Fuck, why did those assholes deserve the quick deaths? This just wasn't fair. It was her goddamned fault he was here in the first place.

She gave him a sharp look that told him if he so much as breathed too loud she would draw this out even longer. Clint did his best to take the hint.

When seconds later she pushed her fingers into his gunshot wound and dug around Clint could only bite down on his scream. Broken whimpers escaped no matter how hard he fought, sweat beading his brow, his breathing fast and ragged.

The minutes ticked by. Clint didn't lose consciousness until what felt like hours later; her knife wet with his blood and his head full of cotton candy.

He was sure the relief was mutual.

 ****February 13th 2006****

When he woke up in a hospital the next day Clint learned that they'd found him lying unconscious in a pool of his own blood. He had a bullet wound in his shoulder with no bullet in it and a mild concussion that made the doctors poke him awake when he tried to fall asleep.

They wouldn't stop asking him the goddamned date, always looking worried when he didn't know it. They asked more questions, some simple shit, some that he hadn't stayed in school long enough to learn about. Those were the ones that made them scowl at him like he was doing it on purpose. It was irritating and strange and it made him feel stupid. But it was better than being dead. Definitely better than that.

Clint noticed there had been no mention of the four dead men he should've been found with. Clint assumed the girl had taken care of them somehow. He wasn't sure he wanted to know how. He also didn't tell anyone about her; straight up lying to the cops that came to interview him an hour after he woke up.

When he skipped town a few hours later Clint made sure to drop a false trail or two to make sure the mysterious teenager would escape the cop's investigation undetected.

It was the least he could do, he thought.


	2. Chapter 2

****June 3rd 2008****

The German summer sun beat down on Clint's exposed shoulders, burning his skin a shiny red as he squinted up at the huge red brick mansion. Licking his dry lips Clint took a sip from his water bottle, doing his best not to look too impressed. He didn't know a damn thing about architecture, but Clint couldn't help but admire raw talent when he saw it. It was beautiful.

It also so happened to be directly opposite a public golf course, which was where Clint stood. He leaned most of his weight on his rented golf club, using the guise of a summer golfer to sketch out the perimeter of the building and see what security systems they had in place.

It was hardly the most exciting job he'd ever taken.

"How's it lookin'?" Bucky's voice asked, interrupting Clint's thoughts through the earpiece he'd leant Clint yesterday.

"Like a push over," Clint replied, giving the building another quick once over. "'Course the outside isn't the problem. Old house like that, they've probably got more internal security than Fort Knox."

Bucky gave a low hum of acknowledgment, though he didn't sound too happy about it. "You need to get in closer?"

Clint turned away from the house, bringing his focus to a game of golf he was pretty sure he was winning. Can you even 'win' a game of golf by yourself? Lining up his shot, Clint realised he didn't care. "No need. The owner's holding a dinner party tomorrow night, so, I was thinking we should slip in through the back and act as waiters for the night. You got a suit and tie with you?"

Bucky snorted a laugh. "What do you take me for?"

"You really don't want me to answer that," Clint replied, deadpan while he swung his club. The ball sailed through the air and Clint knew it would land in the hole before it did. Wow he was bored. Mind-numbingly, soul-crushingly bored.

"What kind of person does this for fun?" he grumbled as he stalked off to the next hole. "This is the shit paint watches when drying gets too exciting."

"Good to know you're having fun," Bucky chuckled, his voice quiet so as not to draw attention to his hiding spot.

"I'd be having more fun if I didn't have to listen to your fucking voice the whole way through," Clint shot back, glancing wistfully at the treetops large hawthorns scattered around the edge of the course. In one of them Clint knew Bucky was comfortably perched, watching the whole scene from above. "How come you got to be the eyes in the sky?" he huffed, not sounding unlike a petulant child.

"Because I'm paying you and I get to choose. Stop complaining," Bucky ordered, without any force behind it, his voice light with banter.

In retaliation Clint sent his next ball flying 3 times higher than was necessary before it potted neatly into the hole for the sixth time in a row. Showing off just a little bit.

Bucky whistled low in appreciation. "Not bad, Hawkeye. Not bad."

Clint smirked smugly to himself as he trudged his way towards the next hole.

He'd been a little more selective about his clientele in the past few months, ever since some dudes in Romania tried to sell him into a human trafficking ring. And, while they predictably didn't live to tell the tale, Clint would rather not repeat the experience.

Bucky had chosen him because he had what seemed to be an entire crime syndicate to eradicate off the face of the earth and he couldn't do it alone. He had liked Clint's impeccable success record and his reputation of shooting first, asking questions never. Clint had liked Bucky's lack of connection to human traffickers and his choice of weapon, so it was practically a match made in heaven.

They'd been working together for only three weeks and they'd already destroyed nearly five bases with little to no trouble. Life was good.

Today, the job was considerably simpler. Stealing the information of more bases from whatever aristocrat owned a place that looked like _that_. Honestly, compared to all the other shit Clint had been through in the past few years it wasn't a very daunting task.

"Hey, there's some chick on the roof of the clubhouse and she's staring right at you, man," Bucky said quickly, his voice tense and wired. Clint knew from his tone that he was already fingering the trigger on his sniper rifle, ready if trouble were to strike.

"She armed?" Clint asked, his muscles instantly tensing as he felt the vulnerability of his position. His back was completely exposed in the plain white vest he wore. The golf course offered absolutely no cover if gunfire was to rain from above. Clint shivered slightly at the thought, his nerves on fire.

"I don't see anything," Bucky said, sounding as on edge as Clint felt.

Taking a chance, Clint whirled to face the clubhouse. Looking up to the roof, Clint found himself instead meeting the narrowed eyes of a teenage girl. The same girl who'd been tailing him for just over four months now.

All at once the tension in his body bled away with the soft sigh of exhaustion that escaped his lips. Though he hated it, Clint proceeded to turn his back to her, all his instincts screaming against it. Unfortunately he knew nothing less would convince a military man like Bucky that Clint's trust in the kid was genuine. And what Bucky didn't trust, Bucky shot.

"It's fine, Boss. Just my little shadow. She's not a threat, ignore her," Clint lied with surprising ease, trying to keep his body language casual, allowing his shoulders to drop with relief.

"What the fuck do you mean shadow?" Bucky bit back, obviously not satisfied with that answer and sounding a little pissed off. "You telling me she's been following us this entire time and you never said anything?"

Clint knew it sounded insane, but though he'd never exchanged a word with the girl himself, he knew she didn't mean him any harm. If she'd wanted to kill him she would've done it two years ago or even 2 months ago when he was resting up from jumping off a five storey building. She didn't want him dead, so it hardly mattered if she tagged along.

Sometimes he even left a plate of food out for her when the weather was particularly harsh, like she was a stray cat or something. Clint never regretted it though. She always looked just the wrong side of skinny and he didn't know how the fuck she would pay for her own food otherwise so he just...kept doing it. The plates were always scraped clean by the time he went back for them, so he assumed she didn't mind either.

One time he'd been in Alaska and a snowstorm had hit in the middle of the night. Clint had woken to find his bedroom window inexplicably hanging wide open, gusts of icy wind blasting into the room. The girl had been huddled underneath it, looking tiny and freezing, her skin unnaturally pale. She'd kept her eyes sharp, suspicious and untrusting. She kept her entire body coiled tight like a spring, ready to bolt at the slightest sense of danger.

Clint had thrown a spare blanket at her, mumbled something about closing the window and rolled over without another word. At the time, Clint was testing the theory that she didn't want to kill him in his sleep and decided this would be the perfect experiment. Anyway, the girl dying from hypothermia wouldn't be of any benefit to him.

Of course, Clint was a risk taker, but he wasn't stupid. He didn't dare sleep the entire night and he was pretty certain that she didn't either, but that was a given. Neither trusted the other enough for that level of commitment. But no one made any mid-night assassination attempts either. All in all, he considered the whole thing a wonderful success.

Obviously, he couldn't tell Bucky any of this. He never told anyone.

"She's harmless, I swear. Just some street rat that's taken a liking to me, that's all."

Bucky made an unhappy noise and it was a few long moments before he let out a soft huff. "Alright, fine. She doesn't look like she'd be up to much. But tell her to stay off the roofs. Next time I catch her up there I might not check before I shoot."

Clint gave a grunt of acknowledgement, ignoring the smile that threatened to curl at the corner of his mouth before he swung his club for the final time, the ball landing in the hole for the 18th time in a row. He lazily spun the club in his hands. "Right, I'm done anyway. Let's get out of here, Boss."

"Finally," Bucky sighed, a series of sharp exhales the only evidence he was climbing down from his perch in the tree.

A few minutes later Clint re-opened the call on his earpiece. "Um, Bucky? There's a guy in the lobby, uh, short as hell, blonde and skinny as a stick currently shouting his head off at the manager."

"So what?"

"Well your name's come up more than once, man. You know this guy?"

Bucky's answer after a few seconds was a long suffering sigh and a soft promise of, "I'm gonna kill him. I swear to God I'm going to fucking kill him."

The little guy introduced himself as Steve Rogers; Bucky's best friend and roommate.

Steve Rogers, as Clint found out the hard way, really didn't take kindly to being referred to as a 'little guy'.

For a little guy, Steve Rogers sure knew how to throw a hard fucking punch.

 ****June 4th 2008****

By the time Clint arrived the party was already a fucking disaster, well on its way to becoming full on pandemonium.

Guests and staff members alike ran panicked and disorientated through the corridors. A few men and women tried to take control of the situation and utterly failed in the attempt. Beautiful shimmering gowns and staggeringly tall high heels, as it turned out, were not made for running in. Several women sprinted barefoot past Clint, their shoes clasped tightly in their hands.

It was quite a lot to take in.

Clint stumbled his way to the main dining room and was instantly hit with the heavy acrid scent of raw meat. He very nearly tripped over a body that lay in a crumpled heap near the doorway. The final remnants of the crashed party were still there: smashed glasses and porcelain plates all over the floor. Some wooden tables had been overturned, lying in splinters just large enough to look dangerous. A security guard hung limply from the rafters, rope looped tightly around both of his ankles as his arms swung uselessly in the air. His unconscious body spun itself in a slow, lazy circle.

He wasn't the only casualty. Clint counted five bodies, each in the uniform of a security guard, strewn haphazardly across the room. At least four were dead, silver knives and wooden debris protruding from their unmoving bodies. Clint gave them each a nudge all the same, just in case.

Blood dripped onto the wooden floorboards as Clint checked the hanging guard's pulse, a weak but constant beat meeting his fingers. The archer sighed with something akin to relief. It didn't seem right for the guy to die just for doing his job.

Clint grabbed a knife from the abandoned twelve seat dinner table at the head of the room and, reaching up as far as he could, carefully cut the man down. Lowering him to the ground Clint made sure to go slow, trying not to injure the man any more than he already was.

When Clint finally had the guard safely laid out on the floorboards there came a sudden, bloodcurdling shriek from a door at the other end of the room.

"Goddamnit," Clint muttered, pausing in his movements. He gave the unconscious guard a regretful look before he stood, pulling out his gun and clicking off the safety. "I'll be back for you dude," he promised before he disappeared through the door, following the muffled whimpers that echoed off the brick walls. About halfway down the corridor a blood trail appeared, fresh and gleaming on the wooden floor. Clint frowned but followed it.

The gun raised, Clint stormed into what looked to be a luxurious bedroom, coloured with lavish gold and eye catching green. The interior would've been quite tasteful were it not for the man lying trembling in the centre of the room. A woman in a simplistic light blue dress crouched over him, a deadly sharp knife pressed hard into his throat.

Crimson blood had formed a large pool underneath the man and he looked ready to pass out. The woman was shouting at him in a furious quick fire of Russian that Clint didn't understand in the slightest. The little man apparently didn't either; replying with nothing but a cracked, quavering plea in German.

He was an old, rather frail man with greying hair and Clint felt sorry for him. That is right up until the guy pointed a shaking finger in Clint's direction and the terrifying woman turned on him instead.

All the blood instantly drained from Clint's face as he recognised the hard, emotionless slate of his teenage shadow's face.

And Clint was pointing a gun right at her.

Shit.

Without even thinking about it he dropped the gun with a clatter, holding his hands up in a placating gesture. The girl's eyes were glassy, glazed over; Clint wondered if she even recognised him. At his actions her mouth quirked up in a small smile that was equally beautiful and fucking terrifying.

She gracefully rose from her victim. The guy whimpered in terror at her feet but didn't dare move away. Clint wondered if that would be him in a few minutes.

Clint was barely able to brace himself before she was on him.

He did his best with what he had. Clint had thought his hand-to-hand skills weren't so bad, but then again he'd never fought someone like this girl before. Someone he thought might be professionally trained to murder - one theory of his which he wasn't so keen to test out.

She feinted for his head then landed several solid blows to Clint's stomach before he even realised what was happening. Clint took a few test swings at her head and watched as she dodged them effortlessly. She tried to stab the knife into his jugular and he only just managed to block the attack. He earned a jab to the jaw for his trouble, but it was worth it.

Clint focused all his energy on keeping that lethal little knife in her hand as far away from his body as possible. He could take the punches; walk them off just like he always could. But a stab wound? Yeah, not so much.

Trickshot had only taught him how to aim a bow. Nothing else. He'd never explained how to take down someone who moved so fast Clint never saw the blows coming. Who hit with precision and technique and never hesitated even for a second. Trickshot's training was no help here.

But, Barney? Barney had taught Clint how to fight dirty.

He used his greater strength and larger frame against her, forcing her to stop in her unrelenting flurry of attacks by grabbing her bony shoulder and pulling her tight against his chest; trying to restrict the space she had to move just like he'd been taught.

The next thing he knew she'd slammed a sharp elbow into his nose and thrown him clean over her shoulder, dumping him on his back with a painful thump.

Clint reckoned he'd held his own for about two minutes, and he would've been proud of that were it not for the fact he was probably going to die now. The girl knelt heavily on his chest and pressed a sharp line of garrotting wire against his exposed throat. Fuck, that hurt like a bitch.

"You're slow," she said in a remarkably matter-of-fact tone, not even out of breath, her accent Russian but her English absolutely flawless. "And sloppy."

Clint wrinkled his nose in offense. In retaliation he tried to buck her off until it quickly became clear that that wasn't going to happen any time soon. She had thighs like steel.

"Well, you're way heavier than you look," he coughed out, kind of struggling to breathe under the combination of her weight on his chest and the wire at his neck. He struggled a little more though. After all, he still had his pride to uphold here.

Her eyebrows came together, just a little, in a frown.

Clint couldn't help but huff out a laugh, a little grin pulling at his lips despite the situation he was in. He had no idea what she was looking at him like that for but he spoke anyway, "Not that you're fat or anything, you're-" He struggling to draw breath for a moment. "You're not. Obviously."

To Clint's amusement the frown disappeared.

"What are you doing here anyway?" he gasped after a while of listening to the old guy let out wet, agonised chokes. Might as well have a chat if this was going to take so long.

The girl stared at him for a few long moments before the old guy on the ground let out a particularly pained whine. She glanced back at him, her eyes filling with a surprising amount of hatred.

"He knew you were coming here. It was a trap," she spat, her accent more pronounced in her anger. "You would be dead if I didn't make him stop first."

It was Clint's turn to stare at her, only this time in astonishment. He glanced at the dude who suspiciously still hadn't moved an inch despite being left alone for a long time. "Thanks for that, much appreciated. I- uh, what did you do to 'stop' him, exactly?"

Those dead eyes met his unrelentingly, her face a remorseless blank slate. "I slashed his hamstrings. He's not going anywhere."

Clint winced despite himself.

"Hawkeye!" came a panicked shout from the open door.

The girl's weight was suddenly gone from his chest. She crossed the room almost too fast to be human and had her wire digging deep into Bucky's vulnerable neck, forcing him to his knees with a choked off shout. Her eyes empty the girl placed her knee between Bucky's shoulder blades and pulled the wire tight.

Bucky was making wet gasping sounds that made Clint want to throw up. No matter how little time he'd spent with the guy, he'd grown attached nonetheless. Bucky was a good guy. He didn't deserve to die like this.

"Stop!" he yelled his voice scratchy and painful but still more than loud enough to be heard. "Please. Don't kill him, stop!"

To Clint's astonishment the girl froze. For what felt like hours she just stood there, her eyes flickering from Clint to Bucky whose face was turning an awful shade of purple, before she dropped the garrotting wire altogether. Bucky got around 4 seconds to take in a single glorious lungful of air before the girl took her tiny knife in hand and stabbed it deep into his thigh.

Bucky _howled_. Clint swore, scrambling over to the man and clamping his hand down on the wound, trying to stem the blood flow.

The girl ran, disappearing like a ghost, never once looking back.

The next job Clint did, his shadow never turned up and he didn't miss her, not one bit.


	3. Chapter 3

****August 14th 2008****

Clint hadn't been to a hospital in a long time, not since Bucky had hired him. The man was a textbook ex-military nutcase, from the dog tags that hung around his neck to the trust issues that surpassed even Clint's own. Bucky had avoided hospitals like the plague – they were too risky and asked too many questions - and so, through association, Clint did too.

From what he could tell, he hadn't missed out on much.

They'd wrapped his head in bandages, given him some pills and then left him alone to sleep for 6 hours straight. All things Clint was pretty damn sure he could've done by himself for free. Then, apparently, they decided to send him into surgery while he was nice and docile and unable to protest.

The ringing in his ears still hadn't stopped. He was having a bit of trouble understanding what the doctors were saying, but he hadn't worried. Give it an hour or two, it would pass.

At least, that's what he'd thought until he woke up from his drug induced sleep to find a doctor standing over his bed, two unfamiliar objects in her hands.

Clint had felt mildly nauseous when the nurse came over and unwrapped the bandages from his head. "Don't [wor-], [ca-] down. [-] let me get [th-] off," the doctor said and Clint frowned at her in confusion.

"What?"

She gestured for him to wait a moment, still unravelling the bandaging from around Clint's head until it was all gone. When it was done she set it to the side and turned to face the marksman with a serious look on her face. She spoke slowly and clearly and Clint tried to focus on her mouth to figure out what the hell she was saying. "Mr [Barton] we wa-[nt?] you to [-] [these?] for a while," she said, holding up the two objects in her hands. "Is th-[at? is?] okay?"

Unsure of what else to do, Clint nodded.

Ten minutes later the two behind the ear hearing aids were awkwardly fitted behind Clint's ears. To his relief, they did indeed make it easier to hear what the doctor was saying. He wasn't so keen on the uncomfortable weight of them behind his ears and he subconsciously nudged them with his fingers while the doctor explained his situation. Most of which he'd figured out by himself.

His name was Clint Barton. He was currently in Stockholm. He'd been involved in an explosion which left him with two ruptured ear drums, a few second degree burns across the left side of his body and a length of shrapnel buried in his leg. She said the damage to his hearing was permanent. She said the surgery to remove the shrapnel had gone well; he would be back his feet in no time. She said the police would like to speak to him now. He numbly agreed.

"No, I don't know why someone would try to kill me," he found himself saying even though he knew it was a lie.

"Have you recently been involved in any gang activity in the area?"

"No."

"Why were you-"

"Was anyone found with me?" Clint asked, cutting the officer off without even thinking about it.

There were a few moments of confused silence before the officer cautiously answered, "No, just you. Why, was there anyone else with you?"

"No, no one else," Clint said, shaking his head before looking up at the man with a confused frown on his face. "I can't... really remember," he said softly. And that was a lie too.

Everything had happened so quickly.

Bucky and Clint had been investigating a building just outside of Stockholm . One of Bucky's informants had thought to be a central hideout for Hydra –the group, Bucky had finally revealed, they had been targeting all this time. They'd been working alongside said informant; a peaky, hairy and aggressively cheerful man named Roffe, who owed Bucky a favour from 'way back in the day', something Clint thought was a stupid thing for a 26 year old to say, but, whatever.

They'd spent the early hours of the morning trying to convince Roffe that yes, they were going to the bad guy's hideout and yes, he _was_ coming with them. The guy was a suborn bastard and by the time they'd finally got out of their damn hotel it had been long past midday. Clint had been thoroughly pissed off at the two of them but then, they hadn't really noticed. Too busy talking like old friends, shitty inside jokes and all. They were old army buddies, he assumed.

Clint had been tired, hungry and pissed off, which was never a good combination with him. So he'd ended up trailing a few meters behind them; hands shoved in his pockets and his hood up over his head.

Maybe that was why he didn't mention it when he spotted a tiny tuft of wire poking out from under Roffe's car. Maybe it all just went too fast.

Either way, it hardly mattered. The end result was still the same.

Roffe had reached out to open the door and then the world exploded in a blast of fire.

Clint was blown back a few feet from the flaming mess that used to be a car. His ears filled with an incessant ringing and the air clogged with a thick, cloying smoke that left a sour taste on his tongue.

He couldn't move, he could barely breathe, the air punched out of his lungs as soon as he hit the ground. His skin stung, burning mutedly in the back of his conscience as he made a futile attempt to pull himself to his feet.

The movement sent a sharp stabbing pain through his head, overwhelming agony forcing him to be still. His hands cupped his ears which seemed to hurt most of all, something wet coating his fingers. Every jostle sent ripples of pain through his body so severe he felt a ragged scream rip from his throat. It took him a few slow seconds to realise it was strange he hadn't heard it.

The sheer force of the impact left him disorientated, his mind smothered in a dense fog. Smoke steadily pumped out of the wreckage as people began to swarm onto the street, running towards him, grabbing him, shaking him; their lips moving but no sound coming out. Clint shouted at them to get back but they only closed in tighter. Was he even speaking at all? He couldn't see Bucky or Roffe anywhere. He shouted louder.

Clint never saw the paramedics arrive. All he felt was a hand clamping down on his shoulder and a sharp prick at his neck, then everything went black. Clint couldn't remember much after that, his final shout dying on his lips as he fell into blissful unconsciousness.

 ****4th September 2008****

Clint had gone into hiding and, if he was really honest, he wasn't enjoying it as much as he thought he would.

Ducking into Spain after everything in Stockholm went sideways had seemed like quite a good idea at the time. But now, well, the novelty of the whole 'time to relax and recuperate' thing had rubbed off a long time ago. All he wanted to do was get out and do _real_ work again.

Bucky was dead, and while Clint would miss a good friend, a good boss and a good man, traditional grieving didn't sit well with him.

He needed to do something to take his mind off it all. But what Clint needed wasn't a job acting as a cleaner in the café across the road. What he needed was to shoot a man dead from 100meters away at an impossible angle and get away with it.

Too bad his gun had been inside the car when it exploded.

But do you know what? Clint kinda liked Barcelona all the same.

He liked that in this country he couldn't understand what people were saying even if he _could_ fucking hear them. He didn't know Spanish and it was the perfect excuse. At work he would just stare at a person with a blank expression rather than put his hearing aids in and attempt to understand. People would usually sigh and point at whatever they wanted him to do. Clint could figure it out from there. He liked it better that way.

Clint rarely spoke these days. Hell, he hadn't had a straight up conversation with someone in over a week and that's with most of his co-workers speaking perfectly good English. Not that he'd particularly want to speak to them anyway. They were all high school age, not a single one over 18.

To be fair to them, Clint not showering or even shaving in nearly two weeks probably didn't help his popularity. He looked bad and smelled worse but he couldn't do much about it. The shower in his hotel room was broken and he'd been far too exhausted in the evenings to do much more than collapse into bed anyway. He knew that it wasn't reasonable to expect them to speak to him, and he was fine with being ignored. But then, kids couldn't just ignore him, they were too cruel for that.

Clint knew they liked to call him things when they though he was out of earshot. He read their lips and saw it anyway; pervert, creep, freak, stalker being some of their many favourites. They thought he was simple in the head, tried to avoid him at all costs. Clint found that placing a single foot into a room was enough to clear it.

It was a lonely existence, but one he'd resigned himself to nonetheless.

Back in his hotel for another day, Clint lay back on his bed with his eyes closed, taking in the peaceful silence of mid-evening Barcelona. The humidity from outside now replaced by the cool breeze of an overhead fan.

Of course, Clint knew the hustle and bustle of the Spanish markets outside his window hadn't ceased to exist. People still blasted music out their windows, still shouted to each other across the street and still honked their horns when traffic became too congested for their taste. It was just him. It was just him being too cocky for his own good, thinking he was invincible, and reality coming to bite him in the ass like it always should.

He hadn't been careful enough, and now he had to pay the price. He wasn't going to cry over that. It was just how the world worked.

Clint didn't like to feel sorry for himself; especially when he could be a smouldering pile of ashes right about now. But that didn't mean he liked the life he was leading. This person he was becoming, the dreary future that he had to look forward to: that wasn't him.

It was fake, all of it, from the name he gave his employers to the age on his application forms. In this city he was becoming the kind of ghost he'd promised his brother he'd never become: silent and complacent, _boring_.

Pathetic.

It wasn't like he could just pull himself out of it either. He'd tried.

This miserable, artificial life he'd build for himself seemed impossible to snap out of, he was shackled to it. It felt almost like life had always looked this dull and mundane even though he knew it hadn't. He was more vulnerable than he'd ever been before, a dangerous thing in his line of work. The sad truth was, without Bucky around to watch his back, Clint was next to useless.

Fiddling with the two hearing aids in his hands, Clint idly wondered if he should start wearing them again. He wrinkled his nose at the thought.

A glance at the clock informed him it was time to change the bandages on his leg. Maybe he would put some cream on his burns while he was at it; they were beginning to itch after all. He should really board up those windows too; they were a weak point in an otherwise secure-

A knock at the door stopped that train of thought before it could finish.

When Clint opened his door he had his aids in his ears but even so he wasn't ready for what met him on the other side.

The terrifying assassin girl on his doorstep was surprising enough; he hadn't seen hide or hair of her in over a month. But that's without mentioning the struggling blonde guy she had locked in a securing chokehold.

Clint stared.

The guy was quite obviously Steve Rogers - still fucking tiny as ever with his huge glasses sitting crooked on his nose and his face flushed red from either the pressure on his neck or the exertion of his anger. Maybe both.

Assassin girl met Clint's eyes with an unimpressed look. "He's been watching you for days. You're getting lazy," she commented, not breathless in the slightest. She tilted her head to the side, giving him an odd look for a moment. "You grew a beard."

"You dyed your hair," he replied defensively, his voice croaky and cracking from days of disuse. Though she didn't smile, Clint swore amusement flickered in her eyes for just a second.

Then she shoved Rogers through Clint's doorway before walking in herself like she owned the place. She turned to look at him expectantly. "Come on, you're going to want to hear what he has to say."

Clint met her eyes for a few long seconds before letting out a sigh of resignation. "Yeah, we'll see about that," he grumbled as he closed the door with a click.

Clint, as it turns out, did not want to hear what Steve Rogers had to say.

What Steve Rogers wanted was to shout abuse at Clint for a solid ten minutes until his little voice got all dry and scratchy and he couldn't continue anymore without dying of an asthma attack.

Clint didn't even try to stop him. It was nothing he hadn't told himself on his worst days.

Steve Rogers blamed Clint for the explosion that killed his best friend.

Steve Rogers wanted Clint to pay for what he did.

But, most of all, Steve Rogers wanted his best friend back, and Clint couldn't do that for him.

"Hydra has taken him captive," Steve insisted from where he sat on Clint's bed, his hands adding emphasis to his words. "I swear he's still alive, I know it. If you would just _look_ -"

Clint was too tired for this bullshit. "No you _think_ he's alive based on a _hunch_."

"They never found a body! He could've been taken in before the-"

Clint gave him a mildly offended look. "I think I would've noticed if someone tried to kidnap Bucky in broad daylight."

"You missed the bomb. Who the hell knows what else you missed that day," Steve snapped back hotly, his cheeks tinged red and his eyes a little too bright.

Clint folded his arms across his chest, glaring the younger man down. "Bucky's dead, Rogers," he gritted out. "Accept it and move on. I have."

Steve laughed darkly, his eyes full of bitter anger while they swept over Clint's rumpled form. "Yeah, no, you're doing just fine," he said, sarcasm dripping from every word.

Clint found himself rise to the defensive, almost spoiling for a fight. "Oh, I'm sorry; I forgot, you're the fucking expert. Go on. How am I doing?" he spat, raw hostility in every word and when Rogers didn't reply he only persisted. "Come _on_. You've been following me around long enough to know, right? How the fuck am I doing?"

Because Clint knew how he was doing.

He knew he was drinking more and sleeping less. He knew he wasn't eating enough and he spent his days cleaning up other people's messes for them. He had no friends, no prospects, no goddamned reason to be here and he fucking knew it.

Rogers, for all his anger, wouldn't say any of that to his face.

For a few fleeting seconds Rogers had the decency to look ashamed. "Look, I didn't mean-"

"Yeah, sure you didn't," Clint snapped, and a tense, awkward silence stretched out between them that he didn't give a fuck about.

Clint's fury petered out almost as fast as it had appeared and he slumped a little where he sat. He decided to keep his voice firm but low, mostly for his neighbour's sake. The last thing he needed was to get kicked out of this hotel on top of everything else.

"I'll put it this way. There was over 1kg of explosives in that car, Rogers. I was a good few metres away and the blow back still nearly killed me." He paused for a moment, recollecting himself, the memory fresh and surprisingly painful even after all this time. "Bucky was right beside the blast, not three feet away. He's dead, that's it, end of story," he muttered, his jaw set and his shoulders tensed.

Steve was breathing hard, his little hands clenched into fists at his sides. "Bucky could've survived it," he argued, though his voice was a little weaker. Clint was suddenly struck by how fucking sad it was to see a guy so deep in denial that he couldn't accept dead as an answer. Rogers should go see a bereavement councillor or something. "He was a Ranger for two tours; he knows what to do in those-"

"Steve, the army doesn't teach you how to be bomb proof," Clint sighed, the whole conversation just giving him a headache. "Please, just give it up and go the hell home."

He was exhausted beyond belief and just wanted to go to bed. His hearing aids were beginning to hurt a little where he'd hastily stuck them in. He hadn't worn them this long in - well, ever - but he refused to touch them with Assassin girl still in the room. Too dangerous.

Speaking of which, he turned to the girl, one eyebrow raised. "You thought I'd want to hear this guy rave to me about my dead friend for half an hour? Because if you did you were wrong. Like, so fucking wrong."

She held his gaze for a few seconds from where she lounged lazily on an uncomfortable looking armchair. Assassin girl had dyed her hair, now a light strawberry blonde. It looked fantastic, Clint thought, though he would never tell her that.

"Steve's right," she said, startling just about everyone in the room. Even Steve himself looked shocked, but considering his experience with the woman, that was unsurprising.

Clint tried his best not to feel too betrayed. "You're telling me you agree with everything you just heard?" he asked in disbelief.

She rolled her eyes. "Obviously not, but I did my research before coming here. Unlike _some_ people." Steve shifted a little at the comment but didn't interrupt. "They're holding him at a base a few miles outside of Rennes."

"Where the fuck is that?"

She gave Clint an exasperated look, like he was being stupid on purpose. "It's a city in the northwest of France."

Clint pulled a face. "France? Why would they take him there?" He held up a hand before she could answer. "You know what? It doesn't even matter. Even if Bucky is there, which he isn't, the chances of him being alive are 1 in a million. The guy's been in there for what? Nearly a month? There's not a chance they'd keep him alive that long."

"Stranger things have happened," Steve chipped in, sounding overwhelmingly hopeful. It made Clint want to go shoot something. "Like I said, they never found a body."

Clint waved his hand dismissively. "No, no, no. The guy is dead. And even if he wasn't, what do you want me to do about it?" he was getting dangerously close to whine territory. "I have no gun, no money and no interest. Why the hell are you here?"

Assassin girl raised one perfectly arched eyebrow. "I can get you a gun, money is Rogers' problem and, of course you're interested, you're an _assassin_. This is what you do."

Clint felt something inside him snap. Something sharp and bitter and jagged that he hadn't even realised was so close to breaking until it was too late.

"No I'm not, not anymore," he replied with a sigh, stepping forward and turning his head to the side, giving her a clear view of his hearing aid. He didn't care what she would do with the information anymore, it didn't matter.

"I can't hear right; explosion busted both my eardrums to hell," he muttered, utterly defeated. He kept his eyes glued to the floor, unable to look her in the eyes. He'd never felt so useless. "I can't just walk into a job without being able to tell if anyone is behind me, I can't do it. I'd be dead in twenty minutes flat. So, I'm sorry but I can't help him and I can't help you."

A heavy silence hung in the room for a few seconds. But to his amazement when Clint met her eyes the girl didn't look fazed in the slightest, merely looking from his ears to his face, unimpressed. "You can still shoot straight, can't you?"

"Of course I-"

"Then I'll watch your back while you shoot," she said.

Those words hung heavy in the air, holding far more weight to them than Clint thought they deserved. He narrowed his eyes at her. "And you expect me to trust you on what exactly? I don't even know your name. What are you getting outta this?"

She met his eyes steadily, irritation clear as day. She folded her arms across her chest in an intimidation tactic that worked beautifully. "If it matters so much to you, my name is Natasha. And no, I don't have to explain myself to you."

Natasha, huh? How normal. Clint wondered if that was even her real name.

"Yes you fucking do," he snapped, with maybe a little more force than necessary. Steve made a strange noise like he feared for Clint's life, suddenly reminding Clint of his existence. In a show of shocking self-restraint Clint tried to lower his voice so that only she could hear. Steve could probably do without the extra stress; he was liable to burst a blood vessel over it. "Last time we met you were choking the life outta Bucky, and now you want to save him? What's changed?"

Natasha met his questioning gaze with a steely glare. "Make your mind up, we've wasted enough time. You're either helping us or not."

Clint wasn't satisfied by the avoidance but figured it was probably the best he was going to get out of her.

He thought about his days spent mopping up other people's spilled food and drink in the café across the road. He thought about being a freak that blends into the furniture. He thought about how it's only a matter of time until those kids he works with make a formal complaint to the owner who only gave him a job as an act of pity.

There was nothing for him here.

Hey, though Clint would never say it aloud, maybe he was glad to lose an argument. Just this once.

"Alright fine, I'm in," he relented, rubbing a tired hand over his face. "But on one condition."

"Name it," Steve said immediately, that infernal hope creeping into his voice once more.

"Stop following me. _Both_ of you can stop following me, alright? That's it. I've had it," Clint demanded with little conviction behind it.

Steve swore that he would never do it again. Natasha gave him a disinterested little half-shrug. Clint thought that was the best he was going to get.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," he said, as Steve kept talking, moving to usher the shorter man out the door before the guy offered him his first born or something. "I've agreed to help you, not house you. Get out of my room, go on, shoo. Scoot."

Steve left with several more apologies and many thank-yous that made Clint feel like backing out of the whole thing all over again.

Natasha just exited out the fire escape window without a word. Clint didn't mind. He knew she'd be back by morning.

With a sigh he pulled out his hearing aids, set them in their case and collapsed into bed for a long awaited sleep wondering how his life had come to this.


	4. Chapter 4

****7th September 2008****

They entered the base together, just as they had planned. Clint in front with his brand new rifle and Natasha behind him, covering his vulnerable back with two deadly pistols.

Clint had never fought well in a team, so it was strange to him how natural it all felt; her fluid movements behind him, the familiar weight of a gun in his hands, the sour smell of blood and sweat in the air. He'd missed this, the danger. The sheer exhilaration of it that set every nerve in his body on fire.

Clint had decided to leave his hearing aids in his room due to the gunfire, so Natasha was essentially acting as his ears as they fought. She was fucking great at it too. Clint caught himself more than once forgetting all about the danger and actually having fun for the first time in forever.

It was insane.

They were a scarily effective team, blasting their way through the ground floor until they came to a flight of stairs. There were only two floors in the entire building, they knew, and Clint didn't even think to hesitate. "I'll go up, you keep looking down here," he said, not bothering to keep quiet as the time for surprise had come and gone. "Meet at the other side?"

She looked surprised but didn't question his decision, giving him a curt nod and running into the fray once more.

Clint appreciated that, because as soon as the words left his mouth he wanted to take them back. He'd wanted this to go faster but he hadn't expected her to actually _agree_. As he watched Natasha go Clint felt the easy adrenaline fuelled calm that had settled over him disappear along with her. He felt the loss like a physical pain in his chest.

Nerves tied Clint's stomach into knots as he limped his way up the stairs, feeling oddly naked under the harsh overhanging lights. When he reached the top he found two men stood in the hallway, blocking his path. Raising his gun he took them out with little effort. Only one bullet needed for the two of them when they lined up so perfectly like that.

On autopilot, Clint slammed the nearest door open, searching for Bucky. When he found it empty, he moved on.

While he couldn't stop glancing over his shoulder every now and again, Clint quickly realised that this wasn't as impossible as he had feared. He could still do his job. He could aim and fire just as he always could, just... quieter, like wearing sound-cancelling headphones at a gun range.

Not being able to hear the tell-tale steps of an incoming attacker did make things more difficult. It meant he had to look around himself more, he needed to be more alert and to pull the trigger quicker. But, he could work with it.

That is until a guard came at him from behind, swinging a crowbar like a fucking baseball bat.

Had he not seen the guy coming Clint was 90% sure that blow could've knocked his head clean from his shoulders. Like a grizzly , though admittedly more interesting, game of golf. As it was, Clint only just managed to duck out of the way in time, the displaced air ruffling his hair a little as the hunk of metal breezed past.

Backing up a bit, Clint aimed his gun and fired, looking confused for a second when nothing happened. Fuck, no ammo.

His attacker took the distraction as the opportunity it was and lunged at Clint, swiping low with his crowbar. Clint went down hard with a shout, his older injury hurting far more than it had any right to. He rolled to the right and aimed a kick at the big fucker's kneecap, catching him right on the bone. Of course, it didn't do anything more than piss the prick off.

Though Clint was fighting the best he could, he knew there was no chance he could win this fight. All he could do was block and dance around the guy until he tired him out, and it wasn't going well. Beads of sweat trailed down Clint's face as he blocked yet another powerful strike with his gun, his arms aching with the strain of it.

It had only crossed his mind that this guy was far too well trained to be Hydra when the guard's weapon finally met its mark; an unforgiving blow to the stomach that sent Clint reeling back, choking with pain. His gun clattered to the floor, useless.

The guard's mouth moved, like he was saying something dramatic, and Clint was glad he didn't have to hear it. With a few deep breaths he collected himself, trying to focus, determined to stay on his feet and go down fighting at the very least. Clint kept his fists raised in a loose boxing stance as he waited for the fucker to come at him.

And come at him he did.

With a war cry the guy charged, Clint only just ducking the first swing that came at him. On a whim Clint grabbed the guard's wrist as it flew past and twisted it behind his back as hard as he could. There was a sudden loss of tension in the limb and Clint saw the guy's mouth open in a shout, the weapon flying to the corner of the room.

The guard was furious. He swiftly elbowed Clint in the face, grabbing him by the shirt and, with a shout so loud even Clint heard it, threw him backwards through a closed door.

Clint lay on his back, surrounded by a plethora of wooden splinters and debris. Groaning as the steel mesh of a staircase landing no doubt left a wonderful bruise on the rise of his shoulder blades. _Fuck_.

The guard was above him once more, a sickeningly smug look on his face. The bastard hadn't even bothered to bring his crowbar with him this time.

As retribution for what Clint assumed was a broken wrist, the guy pulled Clint up by the shirt and growled something angry in his face. Clint was pretty sure he laughed, which was probably a tad inappropriate. But hey, he was going to die, why the fuck should he care?

The guard did not seem to appreciate the attitude. His lips parted in a silent roar as he smashed Clint's skull into the metal hand rail, sending stars rocketing across Clint's vision.

The pain was unimaginable. Like someone was crushing his head with a hydraulic press, his brain sloshing around sickeningly as he opened his mouth to scream but no sound came out. His vision was smattered with dots and it took him a few moments of heavy, agonised breathing before he noticed he was eyelevel with the guard's belt. It was a strong belt, army issue even, and several pockets were empty including a holster for a standard pistol. What it did contain was a tiny flashlight, a radio and a pocket sized canister of pepper spray.

The fucker pulled Clint's head back by the hair, his fist coming down for a few cheap shots to the face. Blood dripped down from his forehead into his eyes, from his nose into his mouth, and Clint's hand blindly shot out towards the guy's waist. He took another hit to the face, warm liquid pouring from a cut above his eye, but Clint's focus was on his fingers as they suddenly hit against a cool metal surface.

Clint's eyes lit up and he knew the guard saw it too.

In the time it took for the guard's expression to go from triumph to confusion, Clint already had the spray in his hand. He pointed it directly into the guy's eyes and pressed down on the plunger. The guard's lips parted in an unholy scream, his hands coming up to claw at his eyes in agony. Clint didn't feel bad enough about the jolt of satisfaction the sight sent through him.

It only took Clint a second to take advantage of the distraction; grabbing the guy by the shirt and bodily hefting him over the side of the railing, down into the stairwell below. Clint didn't hear the sound the guy made when he hit the ground, but he didn't look down to check either.

Clint's head was pounding like a fucking drum as he staggered down the flight of stairs that he was sure would take him to Natasha. She had to be at the exit by no- _whoa_ , he was going to throw up.

Reaching out for the railing Clint sagged against it, fighting to keep his breakfast down. His body ached with the acute pain of a thorough beating. The only thing he could smell was the blood that dripped from his – more than likely broken – nose. What was this, his fifth break now?

Wonderful.

At the bottom of the stairs he could just make out a large pair of double doors, smothered in darkness. Beyond them was a small panic room and an exit, Clint knew. Natasha would be there. He couldn't keep her waiting, she could leave without him. He had to move, now. Sucking in a deep breath and gritting his teeth, Clint limped down the last few steps towards the doors, leaning on the railing as he went. God, when did walking get so _hard_?

After several excruciating steps, Clint made it to the doors. And with another deep breath swung them wide open with a little more gusto than he thought he was capable of-

\- just in time to watch a knife stab deep into Natasha's side, seconds before she could shoot her final attacker dead.

Clint was sure his mouth opened in a shout, but he had no idea what he said. All he knew was that he had attempted to run to her aid, the whole world swerving nauseatingly to the right as he stumbled forward on heavy feet.

Natasha was still standing; blood gushing out between the gaps in her fingers. But Clint could see she was beginning to slip sideways. He tried to move his sluggish body faster, to catch her before she hit her head on the hard stone floor but, he didn't quite make it. She fell, and so did he; the dizzying fog in his brain thickening at the burst of effort and sending him to his knees with a groan.

Clint lay on the ground for a moment, his cheek pressed to the floor, feeling the disjointed rise and fall of his own ragged breathing.

Then he noticed the bodies, strewn around the room like toys in a nursery. It was like a scene out of a horror flick.

One corpse was pinned to the wall by the length of piping he'd been skewered with; another had had his face beaten to bloody pulp, beyond recognition. Several more bodies lay decapitated and at least one had been viciously strangled with what looked to be garrotting wire.

The murders had been brutal, without the finesse or clinical efficiency that Clint associated with Natasha. This was pure, unfiltered rage and gore streaked the walls like paint.

On the wall opposite Clint, hung a sign, but it was not written in French or German as expected. Clint frowned at it for a moment, confused. Was that…Russian?

Clint had no idea how long he lay there on the cold stone floor, until he noticed Natasha's pale face amongst the crowd. She was covered with drying blood and dust, her mouth hanging open as she desperately gasped for breath, her eyes wide with shock and pain.

Clint realised that if he didn't get her out of here soon, she would die.

He couldn't have that.

Gritting his teeth Clint hauled himself upright, the sheer effort it took leaving him breathless. He muttered several expletives as he crawled over to where Natasha laid, a thick red puddle slowly pooling around her body. Her hands had gone slack on the wound, her eyes distant as she allowed it to bleed freely onto the stone.

Without even thinking Clint clumsily tugged his hoodie over his head, almost overbalancing in the process, before pressing it as tight as he could to the puncture wound; a tiny crater in her otherwise flawless skin. He tied a knot in the sleeves and could only hope it would be enough for now.

What felt like hours later he got himself back on his feet, weak and shaky though they were. He stubbornly blinked away the dots that danced across his vision, reaching down to grab Natasha by the wrists and dragging her towards the exit. It could only have been a handful of meters to the door, but it felt like miles. He tripped over his own feet more times than he'd like to admit, but when he finally managed to shove the huge door open, it was all worth it.

Clint couldn't quite remember where they were but the air was warm on his clammy skin and the sun shone brightly overhead. The door appeared to open out into an alleyway which was dirty and reeked of cigarette smoke. Clint had a dim recollection that he probably shouldn't drag Natasha across the ground with her wound the way it was.

Fuck, why did everything hurt so much?

Clint slotted his arms under her small body and lifted her up with a pained groan and a whole fucking lot of muttered complaints and began to walk. One foot in front of the other, his only goal to get as far away from that fucking place as he could get. People probably saw him, he didn't care.

He kept walking until his knees went out from under him and he collapsed in the mouth of yet another alleyway, this one no cleaner than the last. He was drenched in sweat like he'd just ran a marathon, his chest heaving as he lay on his back, staring up at the startlingly blue sky . Jesus he was tired; so, so goddamned tired.

Sleeping wasn't an option though, not yet. Clint could feel the last of his energy draining from his body as he pulled himself up one last time and looked at where Natasha lay prone in the dust. His hoodie was soaked through with red, no use anymore. So with his vision blurring and his fingers trembling Clint ripped off the hem of his shirt. For some reason he couldn't allow this girl to die on him. Not here. Not now.

She'd saved his life once. That had to count for something.

He didn't know how dirty the cloth was but she was bleeding so fucking much and he couldn't think of anything else to do. So he shoved the cloth into the wound and pressed down with all his strength.

Natasha was so young and could already kill a man a thousand different ways with her pinkie finger. She'd be useful, sought after, absolutely incredible wherever she went. It was a guarantee. Clint was a replaceable hit-man whose only selling point was that he was a decent shot. Out of the two of them, she had to survive this. She had to.

Clint frowned in confusion when he noticed that she was shivering. It was so hot, how the hell could she be cold out here?

He threw his dampened hoodie over her anyway, just in case.

Clint wasn't sure how much longer he clung to consciousness, until he just couldn't anymore. He fell back with a hard thud and closed his eyes against the unforgiving sun, unable to do anything other than fall asleep in the hopes that it was all just some horrible dream.

Too bad for him he never got that fucking lucky.


	5. Chapter 5

Clint woke to a sudden deluge of icy cold water being poured over his head.

His eyes shot open, a yelp of shock leaving his mouth as he flailed, trying to get away from the unholy spray. The surface he lay on was smooth and slippery, he couldn't get a grip on it, and that only made him panic further.

To his surprise a pair of hands clamped around his wrists and stopped him from struggling, the water cutting off before he could shout any more. Clint looked up to see Natasha hovering over him, a concerned expression on her pretty face. A series of colourful curses left his mouth in a rush, but Clint couldn't hear them. No hearing aids, then. One of his eyes was swollen shut but he still tried to look around; dizzy and nauseous and _really_ fucking cold.

He was in a bath tub without a shirt on, shuddering as the shower above his head dripped several more freezing cold droplets down his back. The room itself was tiny, more an en-suite than a bathroom. The once white tiles were stained an ugly moss green.

"Jesus fuck, why would you _do_ that?!" he spluttered, hoping he sounded just as affronted as he felt.

"You [-] [dirty?]," she replied with a casual shrug; any worry wiped clean from her expression in the blink of an eye. She looked a little paler than usual, but cleaner than before, her hair hanging limply around her face, a frown on her lips. For a second Clint had the crazy idea to ask her what was wrong until he remembered they didn't exactly do that.

Instead, he nodded slowly, his head a great deal heavier than he remembered. A headache had begun to thud dully behind his temples but everything else hurt twice as bad, so Clint wasn't worried. He shook his head, sending droplets of water everywhere. "'Course I was. Silly."

Natasha poked him a few times, asking him a few disjointed questions. The date, the president, what was 2+2. Clint answered as best he could, but judging by the look on her face, his answers were less than satisfactory.

Everything that happened on that base was slowly coming back to him as he shivered in that unhygienic little bathroom. He remembered Natasha's blood spewing across the ground, the vivid red stark against the grey stone. Clint frowned up at her, noticing little things.

How she held herself differently now, how heavily she leaned against the edge of the bathtub, how all the blood drained from her face when she moved a certain way. There was a pale blue bruise forming around her eye and another at her jaw, her lip split in two places and her movements sluggish with exhaustion.

Despite all this, Natasha began pressing a small bag of ice against Clint's head, her face expressionless. He winced when she pressed a little too hard on a sore spot. "Hey, hey watch it," he murmured, bringing a hand up to do it himself before she batted it away impatiently.

"Idiot, American," she muttered in irritation, but stopped pressing so hard anyway. "[-] could h-[ave? alf?] died."

Clint snorted, a smirk tugging at his lips as another shudder ran through his body. "Yeah, but you should've seen the other guy."

She shook her head at him and he grinned back, still a little woozy from what he was sure had been another _breath taking_ concussion. They sat for a while in a comfortable silence. Clint could feel himself begin to warm up again, his jeans drying off and the unforgiving summer heat seeping into his bones like it had never left.

"Hey, didn't see Bucky in there, did you?" he found himself asking when he couldn't stand the silence any longer. She shook her head, not meeting his eyes.

"Fuckin' knew it," he groaned, his head thudding against the edge of bath, exhausted. "He was never there to begin with, was he?" Clint let out a long breath, not bothering to wait for an answer. "You lied."

It wasn't a question.

Natasha's expression didn't change, and he hadn't expected it to, but there was a new tension in her shoulders that hadn't been there before.

Clint didn't actually care that he'd nearly died because of her lie. He wasn't one to believe in ghost stories and he'd had no reason to trust her word in the first place. He was surprised to find he wasn't even annoyed about it. The men in that building probably weren't good people, no matter who the hell they worked for or what flag they fought under. The world was better off without them and you wouldn't catch Clint defending bottom of the barrel scum. But then, some would call _him_ that too, so Clint couldn't really talk.

He thought of the way Natasha had killed those men, the pure fury that had fuelled such a bloody massacre. It was a crime of passion. Revenge, through and through. For what? Clint had no idea, but the signs were all there, and he could sympathise.

"You could've just asked y'know. I would've helped," he said, watching as she pretended to focus on the icepack in her hand. He hoped he sounded sincere. It was difficult to tell. "Didn't have to rope Steve or Bucky into it."

To his surprise she responded, shaking her head with a slight scowl on her face. "[-] no guarantee [-f] [that?]," she said, her head lowered a little, making it harder for him to see what she was saying. "[-] [it's?] personal peo-[ple?] always [help?] without [-] [questions?]."

Clint remembered standing over his big brother, an old, rusty pistol, heavy and shaking in his hands as he clicked off the safety and took aim; his little heard thumping hard against his ribcage and his mouth dry. Revenge was always a personal thing, he thought. Natasha was too proud to ask for his help when there was an alternative option available. He could understand that.

He was about to say as much when Natasha's head suddenly whipped towards the door. Seconds later a tall, bald man walked through it and began to speak. Try as he might, Clint couldn't understand a word of it. He guessed it to be French when Natasha responded in kind without hesitation.

Clint wondered if she kept her slight Russian accent when she spoke French or if she only did that with English. She seemed equally fluent in both from his limited understanding. How many languages did she know? Where did she learn them? Hell, better question, where the hell did she learn to fight like a ninja? And where could he sign up?

Clint didn't ask any of these questions and after a few minutes the unknown man left, closing the door behind him. When Natasha turned back to Clint she informed him that the guy was allowing them to rent his bathroom for two days. Clint couldn't help but think that the Frenchman was a bit fucking crazy if he was willing to let two blood soaked assassins anywhere _near_ his home. But considering he was benefitting from the deal, he chose not to argue.

Instead he asked how they got here in the first place. Natasha said she had banged on the guy's door, bleeding like a stuck pig and supporting an unconscious Clint on one shoulder, and he'd just _let them in._ Without asking _any questions._

Natasha seemed to think this was a perfectly normal reaction while Clint came to the ultimate conclusion that the guy was absolutely batshit.

"He sewed you up, then?" Clint asked, remembering the wound in her side that had gushed blood all over his hands, all over his clothes, all over the street. He couldn't see any blood on her now, she'd changed into what Clint could only assume was one of the French guy's shirts.

Scowling, Natasha lifted up her shirt just enough to show off a roughly stitched wound, the flesh raw and pink against her pale skin. It was clean at least. "[-] a [scratch?], I [-] do it [myself?]," she said, in that increasingly familiar tone that meant Clint was being stupid again. She gestured towards him. "I [had?] [-] do you [too?]"

Clint frowned in confusion. He followed her gaze to his left thigh and noticed it was much fatter than his right under his jeans. Thanks to the bandages, he presumed. His old shrapnel wound must've opened again with all the fighting he'd been doing. Clint was struck by the thought that were it not for her, he could've bled out.

"Thanks, Nurse Natasha," he murmured, the gratitude foreign on his tongue but sincere nonetheless. Natasha looked genuinely surprised at the praise and it was a reaction Clint was intimately familiar with. He suddenly had an inexplicable urge to punch something.

The expression was gone in the blink of an eye and she gave him a curt nod of acknowledgement. "[Now?] [-] you're aw-[ake? ay?] [-] you have [any?] broken [-]?"

Clint shook his head, not quite sure what she said but too embarrassed to ask her to repeat it. He was pretty sure he hadn't broken anything anyway, bar his nose which thankfully had been set while he was unconscious. It throbbed dully, but nothing that demanded immediate attention.

Small mercies, he thought to himself, small mercies.

Natasha turned away from him to rummage in the cupboard underneath the sink. Clint realised that if she said anything he wouldn't be able to tell and he frowned at the thought. He missed his hearing aids now that he had someone to talk to, which was surprising after weeks of despising them. Right now they were in the rucksack he'd been living out of for the past few months, wrapped up in a spare pair of socks. He wondered how the fuck he was going to get to them.

Speaking of clothes, "Where'd my shirt go?" he asked, almost as an afterthought.

Natasha turned, this time with a damp cloth in her hand. She threw it on his chest and after a few seconds Clint got to work, running it over the tender bruises on his stomach and back. "I [thought?] you [-] bruised [-] [ribs?]," she said with a slight shrug.

"Okay, now that we _know_ I do, could I have it back?"

She shook her head, her eyes scanning over his torso in a critical manner. "Shower first," she ordered shortly before standing up and marching towards the door.

"Hey, wait! What if I can't stand up on my own?" Clint yelled, not really worried about the possibility but wanting to be difficult nonetheless. "Not gonna join me?"

To his surprise she actually turned her head towards him so he could read her answer, her expression deadpan. "[-] bite me, [Barton?]."

Clint let out a laugh as the door shut tight behind her.

When Natasha returned Clint was stretched out on their patron's couch, his leg propped up on a footstool and the television on, but muted. English subtitles running along the bottom of the screen. He had wrapped himself in a blanket a while ago, warm, loose limbed and relaxed; a far cry from how he'd been earlier that day.

"Hey," he called to her, his eyes still glued to the screen.

"Hello. Where's [A-]?"

"Who? French dude? He said he was going out to get some bleach- or I think he called me a bitch." He wrinkled his nose. "I mean, they both look kinda the same with his accent but I'm _pretty_ sure it's the first one."

"Why would [-] want [bleach?]?" Natasha asked as she dropped his rucksack on the floor, searching through it's contents. A slight smile curling at her lips.

"The _real_ question is why he would call _me_ a _bitch_ ," Clint muttered, scandalised, until Natasha reached over to smack him upside the head. "Ow!"

"[Answer?] [-] question."

Clint pouted childishly for a second before he dropped the façade with a shrug. "Nah, he didn't say. I guess speaking English clearly for the stupid American wasn't really his thing. But, I'd guess all the blood on the bathroom floor _might_ have something to do with it."

"Blood?"

Clint shrugged, not half as embarrassed about it as he felt he should be. She'd seen him in worse condition a few hours ago, after all. "Fell getting outta the shower, stiches came out, crazy Frenchman came to my rescue to patch me up," he huffed, trying to sound bored with the concept even as he shifted awkwardly in his seat. "Dude's got the accent from hell, I can't understand half the shit he says."

"[-] least you [don't?] stink any-[more?]," Natasha commented, dropping down onto the couch beside him. He appreciated the evasion of the topic. She threw two tiny black cases onto his lap. "[-], those [might?] help with [-]."

Clint opened one case to find a hearing aid, much slimmer and more compact than his own, in a startling shade of purple. A peek into the other case revealed another identical aid. They even had the fucking Stark Inc. logo on them. Clint gaped for a moment, in utter astonishment. "Where the hell did you even _get_ these?"

She shrugged noncommittally and didn't reply; eyes fixed on the TV.

A bright grin spread across Clint's face, so big it near physically hurt, but he couldn't stop. He couldn't remember the last time someone had done something like this for him. A simple, gift born out of necessity though it was. Even if she only had to walk into some store and swipe the two cases off a shelf, actual _thought_ had gone into it, real effort.

He ducked his head down to hide the smile, though he knew she saw it. "Thanks, they're great."

A minute later he had the aids slotted comfortably behind his ears. They were watching the French movie Clint had found with the subtitles on, staring at the screen with glassy eyes. The exhaustion of the day's fight finally crashed onto Clint's shoulders now he had the opportunity to relax and he slumped further down into the sofa, curling around a cushion. He was half asleep when he heard it, so quiet it was barely there.

"You're welcome."


	6. Chapter 6

****February 14th 2009****

"You're insane."

Clint was sure the almost devious smirk on his face wasn't helping to dissuade that argument, but nonetheless he couldn't fight it back. "I fail to see how I'm the crazy one here," he muttered into the phone as he tightened his tie. "If anything I'd say I'm as sane as a person can be in this situation."

Natasha's disbelieving snort echoed down the line and his grin widened. "It's still a terrible idea."

"Shut up, it's a great idea," he argued, absentmindedly fingering the fake badge in his pocket, double checking it was still there. He adjusted his shades, a grin tugging at his lips. "It's gonna be hilarious if they fall for this."

"It's going to get you killed if they don't."

"Don't be so pessimistic," Clint scolded as he marched with heavy confident steps down the apartment carpark. He hoped he radiated the same level of arrogant swagger that he'd gaged from every law enforcer he'd ever met. "I'm wearing sunglasses at night, how could it not work?"

Humming the Mission Impossible theme under his breath, Clint began climbing a set of filthy stairs; counting the levels as he went. The building wasn't well kept, falling into disrepair after years of neglect. Clint would bet the landlord still squeezed his tenants dry regardless. The offer was attractive; an apartment complex deep in the centre of Manhattan with no questions asked. For the right price, of course.

That was the reason the fledgling Ukrainian mobsters decided to run a drug cartel out of it. Clint knew the money had paid off; the Ukrainians pumped more drugs into the city than any other supplier. It had made them rich, powerful; dangerous. Too big for their own boots.

They'd started dealing to kids, 9 and 11 year olds racing around high as kites all over the city. And it had brought them the wrong kind of attention.

"Are you-"

"Shhh I'm going in," Clint whispered before ending the call altogether. He prepared himself for the shitshow he was about to jump headfirst into. Natasha hadn't felt like tagging along and Clint honestly couldn't blame her, but that left him here, all on his own. If the plan went wrong he would probably leave this place with several more holes than he had had going in.

Fuck it.

Taking in a deep breath he slammed his fist against the apartment door several times. "NYPD! Open up the fucking door!" he yelled and hoped against hope that Natasha was wrong.

Natasha was, predictably, not wrong.

Clint was panting heavily, bent double as he desperately gasped for his breath back, his phone pressed tightly to his ear. "Okay so-" he gasped breathlessly, gulping in another huge breath of cold night air. "-I got caught. But, in my defence-" He let out a hoarse cough. "They had these demonic little hellhounds…No I'm not kidding, fucking hellhounds I swear to God. Hey, no, what are you laughing at?! I nearly became puppy chow this is not funny!"

Natasha's laughter continued to ring down the phone. It was a pleasant, smooth sound that Clint realised he'd never heard before. He'd never been so thankful that she couldn't see the smug grin that curled at his lips when he realised 'I did that.'

"You're an asshole," he chuckled, swinging down from his fire escape. He'd clambered up it to escape certain death at the teeth of rabid mutts and had an impressive rip in his jeans to show for it. "I came to you expecting sympathy and this is what I get?" he teased, not offended in the slightest. His pistol was still a little warm from shooting the head honcho of the Ukrainian mob in the face. He wasn't sorry about it either.

There was a moment of silence in which Clint was almost certain she was rolling her eyes at him. As he expected, she ignored his comment completely. "Just come back, okay? We've got a plane to catch in two hours."

Clint sighed, scratching the back of his head. "Yeah, about that. I...kinda don't know where I am right now?"

Natasha let out a long suffering sigh that Clint wasn't entirely sure he deserved.

 ****March 6th 2009****

Natasha had locked herself in Clint's hotel bathroom for around 3 hours. Clint was starting to worry.

She sometimes had bad days like these, and while he didn't exactly understand, Clint had accepted them. They were both a little fucked up. To this day Clint couldn't sit inside a car without anxiety so intense he physically shook with fear; beads of sweat dripping down his face as he waited for the inevitable explosion that would blow them all to kingdom come. It never came. But that didn't make him believe it any less.

Natasha though, she was different. She barricaded herself into a room and threatened grievous bodily harm if anyone dared to go near her. Clint assumed she needed the time to have a break down, something to do with her past that he knew better than to ask about. She needed to do it alone too, he realised. The one time he'd tried to open the door she had, true to her word, nearly broken his arm over it.

Today though, he knew the reason for her meltdown. It had been a pretty shit day for both of them after all.

They were in Prague, hunting some crazy lunatic who was kidnapping people on the streets and selling them on the black market for fuck knows what.

Sadly Clint had underestimated said crazy lunatic's sphere of influence and had paid the price.

They'd snatched Clint from his bed, reminding him that he would sleep with one eye open from now on, assholes. Then they'd soaked him in petrol and started pissing around with matches. Lighting one right in front of his nose and giggling in manic delight when it snuffed out, just in the nick of time. They had laughed and laughed and laughed. Like it was all some big fucking _joke_.

Were it not for Natasha he would've died a horrible, horrible death today.

It was almost worrying how good she was getting at saving his ass from this bullshit.

He could still smell the intoxicating fumes on him. On his skin, in his hair; still making him lightheaded even after three showers spent scrubbing until he was red raw. Natasha had burned his clothes as soon as they got back to the hotel, ruined as they were. But as Clint watched them go up in a spitting, violent flame, it only drove home the fact that he'd come _this close_ to being a human candle. A second too late and he'd be nothing but smoke and ashes right now.

It was far from a nice feeling.

Clint wanted to go out, let the breeze blow the stench of fuel from his body and allow him to forget the experience altogether. Maybe he'd even find some petty crime to stick his nose into and shoot some motherfuckers in the head. It may prove to be a good night all around.

But he wouldn't do any of that until he was sure Natasha was alright. And there was only one way to do that.

Clint tapped his knuckle against the bathroom door. "You alright in there?"

Silence was his only answer. It was a better response than he'd been expecting - last time she'd thrown a knife into the door. Clint nodded, as though she had spoken. "I'll take that as a no."

More silence.

"Have you eaten anything today?" he asked, waiting a total of five seconds for the response because he already knew the answer. "Yeah, that's what I thought. I'll leave something out for you, yeah?"

There was no reply, but he knew she was listening. "By the way, you can take the bed tonight if you like. I'm going out to scout the area tonight, won't be sleeping much."

He knew Natasha normally slept outside on the roof of whatever building he was staying in. This was his attempt at putting a stop to that. A compromise, if you will.

This time, Clint waited. Mostly because he needed to double check the woman was still alive in there before he could go anywhere. A few long seconds later quiet noise of affirmative came through the doorway and Clint let out a sigh of relief.

"Okay. Good talk. See you later, Chatty Kathy."

When he came back in the early hours of the morning, Clint was pleased to see the sandwich he'd left out for her had been devoured with relish.

He was exhausted, his muscles burning with the familiar ache of overuse as he dropped his gun at the door and tugged off his boots with fumbling fingers. Staggering his way into the bedroom he was vividly reminded of the pretty redhead that he'd given up his bed for. Or well, he thought he had.

Natasha was curled up on the floor, both fluffy pillows and the duvet stripped from the bed and brought down with her. She was tucked into the corner of the room, all possible entrances and exits in perfect view from her position. It was a soft nest of comfortable bedding, her bright hair the only sign that she was even there under such an avalanche of white.

She looked so calm while she slept. And so fucking young.

It was a sight Clint had never been privy to before and he marvelled at just how gorgeous she was without the ever present tension in her small frame. He couldn't help but find it strange to see someone who was normally so guarded look so vulnerable. It was unsettling even.

Clint would've smiled if his brain weren't focused on the tempting sight of a soft surface to collapse onto. He barely remembered to take out his hearing aids before he dropped down, fully dressed, onto the empty mattress and slept like the dead.

She didn't stay long after that, he knew. But it was progress.

 ****3rd June 2009****

"You fight like an uncoordinated child," Natasha breathed, flicking her hair over her shoulder with an easy grace. "Come on. Again. Try to hit me this time."

They were coming to the end of their first training session in the alleyway behind their hotel. Clint was face down on the scorching hot tarmac of Singapore, drenched in sweat and covered in bruises, and still smiling.

"Shut up, you barely clipped me," he groaned breathlessly, a grin plastered on his face regardless of his cheek being pressed against the ground. At least it was dry and reasonably clean here. If he fell in an alleyway in America he was sure he'd come out with five exotic diseases, a worrying rash and an extra limb.

"Yet somehow, you're on the ground," Natasha said, in that unimpressed tone she saved especially for him. He felt her nudge him in the side with her toe.

"I'm looking for something," he whined unconvincingly.

"And what would that be?" she asked, humouring him.

"I uh- I dropped my dignity around here somewhere. Give me a minute."

Natasha breathed out a laugh at that and Clint's heart soared at the soft, unexpected sound. She nudged him once again, more persistently, with her foot. "Get up, Barton. You're not funny."

"I'm hilarious," he chirped, springing back onto his feet and settled himself into the fighting stance she'd shown him over an hour ago. He crooked his fingers in a 'bring it' gesture with a cocky smirk on his face that he knew she would smack off. "Come on, you know I like it rough."

For that, she found a new way to send him flying onto the tarmac hard enough for bloody scratches to appear on his knees and palms. Clint didn't care.

The humid heat made his black vest top cling to his skin and he was panting by the time he pulled himself up once again. Natasha looked as unruffled as was possible in such a heat wave - her hair tied back into a loose bun and a pair of sunglasses perched on her nose. Clint was impressed she could even keep those things on, his own having fallen off after his first jarring meeting with the ground.

Natasha's knuckles were red and a little raw but she wasn't hitting him as hard as he knew she could. The thought made him smile and he earned a punch in the gut for his trouble. "Again," she barked, wiping away a bead of sweat from her forehead. She was a strict, but effective instructor. By the end of the session Clint was able to smoothly execute all ten basic techniques she'd shown him. Drilling them into his head and muscle memory with repetition and the threat of a painful landing if he failed.

Clint doubted this was a conventional teaching method, but hey, whatever works, right?

As a reward for all the blood, sweat and bruises they both somehow ended up at street vendor who sold some kebab-like things. The very smell of them made Clint's mouth water, his stomach growling with an unexpected hunger. He couldn't care less what it was made of. The chicken was slathered in a sauce so spicy it could probably burn a hole through your tongue if you left it long enough. Clint was in love.

He even bought himself a second one from the delighted vendor, after demolishing the first in less than 2 minutes. Natasha gave him an exasperated roll of her eyes, but didn't argue.

He wished she had.

Clint spent the rest of the day with his head stuck into a toilet bowl, vomiting his guts up, his stomach churning and his throat burning like acid. He complained loudly about the dangers of unidentified street food and how unfair it was that he got food poisoning and Natasha didn't. She, predictably, ignored him.

"Whole thing's a fuckin' conspiracy," he groaned into the toilet in a dejected tone. "Fuckin' universe is workin' agains' me I swear. Can't even eat a fuckin' kebab without-" He retched for a few moments, his entire body shaking with it. "Ugh, tha's some bullshit right there."

Natasha scoffed and rolled her eyes at his dramatics, but regardless she did sit with him for a long time. Well, it felt like an eternity for Clint, but in reality it was probably less than half an hour. She offered him sips of water and, when it became clear there was nothing left in his stomach to sick up she threw him into bed like an unruly child.

Groggily he pulled out his hearing aids and handed them to her, watching as she delicately set them to the side before leaving again, no doubt heading for the window. The weather was good here, boiling hot during the day with a pleasant cool breeze during the night. Perfect conditions for a nice sleep under the stars.

"Wait," Clint called, far too loud as he threw a pillow and blanket at her head. She caught them easily. The blanket was a warm, fluffy burgundy thing he'd found in a charity store for a dollar but Natasha was staring at it like it was a fucking live grenade. She looked up, confusion and something else he couldn't quite read in her expression. He grinned sleepily back. "Sleep here if you want. Won't do nothin'," he slurred, struggling to stay awake long enough to speak. "So long as you don' snore."

His piece said Clint let out a yawn as he rolled himself over, snuggling in tighter to the blankets. After a few short minutes he passed out, snoring softly as he slept.

She wasn't going to kill him it seemed, so forcing her to sleep on the roof every night was a measure he was willing to drop. From the look on her face she wasn't so thrilled by the idea, but Clint didn't mind. Baby steps and all that.

But to his surprise when he woke up in the early hours of the morning he found her asleep in her little nest of blankets once more.

He felt something flip in his stomach at the sight and promptly headed to the bathroom, deciding it was his chicken kebab coming back to haunt him.

* * *

 **A/N: Are you enjoying this story so far? :)**


	7. Chapter 7

****October 16th 2009****

Clint stifled a yawn as he slipped through the window of Giulio De Felice's humble home, several generous miles outside of Naples. The sun wasn't ready to rise yet, the sky outside an inky black and smattered with stars. It was far too early for people to be awake, Clint thought, and he wasn't alone in that sentiment. The security guard posted at the front door had dozed off at about 3AM and hadn't moved a muscle since.

Clint kind of envied the guy.

He edged his way down the hallway towards the living room on the top floor. The entire house consisted of five main rooms and a renovated attic. All the essentials for its single inhabitant with no extravagant ballrooms or pricey private theatres. It was all very minimalistic and homely, kept clean thanks to an elderly housekeeper and protected by a basic security detail. It was simple and snug and everything you would expect from a man trying to keep a low profile.

De Felice had more than a little unwanted attention on him at the moment. He'd retreated out here with the intention of waiting it out. Everyone would forget about it in a few months and he could move back into his mansion with its thick stone walls and it's 24hour CCTV.

Unfortunately for Mr. De Felice, Clint wasn't the type to forgive a rapist and apparently his clientele wasn't either.

When the job came in Clint had done research of his own, more than he normally did anyway. It was more because the guy was a high profile politician than anything else. Clint didn't usually get involved in petty political hits; they were too publicised, too unpredictable and too bitchy for his taste. But this guy. This guy was an exception.

Clint could've done this hit from afar, but he had wanted to do it this way instead. It felt more personal somehow, and this prick deserved a painful, intimate death.

As soon as he opened the door Clint was slammed by the stench of stale sweat and vomit. Bottles of alcohol, both empty and full surrounded the man passed out in an armchair. A snore like a foghorn emitted from his prone form and Clint wrinkled his nose in distaste.

De Felice's unhealthy relationship with drink was well known, and his recent split from his wife was even more so. He'd lost his kids in the legal battle that he barely fought and most of his cash had been thrown down the drain in the form of whiskey. His lacklustre security precautions were a surprise to exactly no one.

All in all, it would appear the guy's life was going down the gutter. And damn, Clint was about to make things a whole lot worse.

He slipped his 9mm pistol out of the holster at his thigh; a present from Nat that he used far more than he'd expected to. And without a second of hesitation he aimed at the guy's head-

-and was promptly hit by a lorry.

Clint went flying to the side; slammed into a solid brick wall by a force more powerful than anything he'd ever experienced before. He ducked when a fist came swinging at his head, a plume of dust and plaster raining down on him when it punched a hole in the stone.

Clint swore and fired at the bastard's head, still trying to comprehend what in the fuck was attacking him. The crack of gunfire bounced off the walls, Clint's ears aching when his hearing aids amplified the sound, but his target was gone. Disappeared like smoke. Clint stayed where he knelt, wary.

The room was dark. No sunlight on the horizon to shine through the window and offer Clint a hint of a shadow or a glint of metal. This was a shame, because he'd heard the metal. The hollow clang and hair-raising screech of metal grinding against stone. It didn't make any sense, but he knew he'd heard it.

To Clint's amazement De Felice was still fast asleep. Far from phased by a gun going off right beside his head, he'd actually fallen into a _deeper sleep_ ; his snores raising another rebellious octave.

And hell, no wonder he could sleep like a baby. He was being guarded by a mother fucking ninja-ghost. What in the fuck did _he_ have to worry about?

Breathing hard, Clint reached out a fumbling hand for a light switch, flicking it on.

And then he only had a moment to take in a man dressed all in black with a muzzle clamped on his mouth before a fist was flying towards his face.

The guy was tall and muscular which should've slowed him down but he moved faster than Clint could even see. It reminded him of Nat and the power hidden in her slim frame. Though if Clint had thought Nat was strong, this guy was three times that, no problem.

Ducking out of the way, Clint fired several consecutive shots; two at the dude's knee caps and three at his exposed forehead. It would be impossible to dodge one without falling prey to the other and Clint was betting on knocking the dude off his feet so he could make a quick escape. Clint was no match for this level of skill and he knew it.

But when the guy deflected all his bullets with his fucking _arm_ with the speed of the fucking Flash, Clint realised just how out of his depth he really was.

" _Dude_ ," he yelped, his jaw hanging open in shock. The moment of distraction was all the guy needed. He punched a hole clean through Clint's chest. Or that's how it felt.

He could _feel_ the bones of his ribcage crushing under the force, shattering like glass as he was flung backwards into a bookshelf. The impact knocked the breath out of him and he crumpled to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut.

Clint tried to suck in a breath and bit back a scream.

Breathing was agonising. That was bad. He couldn't stay here. Clint wasn't going to wait around to be killed by fucking Terminator over here. Fuck no.

His ego could take the hit better than he could survive another punch, that's for damn sure.

Clint knew he wasn't fast enough to outrun a dude who could dodge fucking bullets _Matrix_ style. Which left only one escape route.

He closed his eyes in pained resignation. This was going to hurt. A lot.

Scrambling to his feet, Clint used a wild, uncoordinated hail of bullets to mask his escape as he made a mad dash towards the window. It was a large rectangular thing with white planks of wood splitting it into quarters. This would hurt more than he'd thought.

Clint fired two bullets ahead of himself, smashing weakening holes through the structure before he dove through it, head first.

A hand clamped around his ankle, stopping him dead.

Clint let out an alarmed shriek as his momentum was cut short with a jarring jolt, very near wrenching his fucking leg from his body in the process. Arms pin-wheeling, Clint thudded into the side of the building with a cry. He dangled from the metal arm that wrapped around his leg like a vice. Looking up, a face of nightmares stared down at him, it's makeup slathered eyes glinting with animalistic hunger in the early morning sun.

Clint yelled and kicked it in the face. When that didn't work, he shot it in the face instead.

The metal clasping his ankle disappeared to deflect the bullet and oh god. Clint was falling, falling very fast, and wow, he really should've planned for this.

He tried to do that tuck and roll thing that Nat told him to do one time. Wait, was that even for falling? Or was it for fire? Goddamnit there wasn't _time_ for this shit.

The drop was only two storeys; Clint had fallen further than that, and survived. Still, the landing wasn't any more comfortable than it had been then. He almost snapped his spine when he slammed into the unrelenting grassy plane below. He lay still for a moment, shock freezing his body in place. His head was a constant thumping pain, reminding him once again that gunshots and hearing aids do _not_ mix, but that was the least of his problems.

He tried to move and instantly stopped with a pained wheeze. It hurt too fucking much, his ribs ground together under his skin and a stabbing pain erupted in his chest that made him whimper. A sharp, searing burn shot up his arm, throbbing in sync with his heartbeat. Clint prayed he hadn't broken it. That was the last thing he needed.

A shot rang out, a bullet flying past and pinging off the ground not three inches away from his face. Clint jerked away with a cry and black spots consumed his vision for a moment. When he came round he recognised the shot as one meant to warn, not to kill. Which was...fucking weird.

Broken glass from the window dug deep into his palms as he pushed himself onto his stomach and dragged his body out of firing range of the window. An old woman came running out of the house, having seen Clint fall past her window, and she clucked around him like an agitated hen. Her hands, wrinkled but steady, rolling him over onto his back.

She didn't seem too worried about Clint being an intruder in her house. Rather she wiped at the droplets of blood on his face and pawed gently at his hair, a concerned look on her kind face. She obviously had no idea what to do in this situation, her eyes full of suppressed panic. But Clint supposed, if he was going to die on her lawn, she would make sure he was damn comfortable.

And Clint appreciated it, he really did. But he wasn't dying any time soon and he needed to get the fuck out of there.

The woman didn't appear to speak any English, which was an issue. A pretty fucking pressing issue when a angry dude with impossible strength could come down to murder Clint at any moment.

"I- I need a phone," he croaked out, speaking far more painful than he remembered it being. "Please."

To his amazement she nodded, stood up and picked her way across the glass ridden grass before disappearing into the house. While she was gone Clint kept his eyes fixed on the window he'd just flown out of, the face with the mask now gone. Clint could feel an unfamiliar panic grip his heart and his breathing picking up which _hurt_. It was kind of funny, but he'd never been scared of death before. It sucked ass.

He just didn't want to leave Nat on her own, that's all.

He'd promised he'd make them both breakfast tomorrow. How the fuck was he supposed to do that if he was too busy being dead?

The old lady came running out of the house, quite deft on her feet for a woman who had to be pushing eighty, with a phone in hand. It was one of those cordless landlines and Clint took it with a grateful smile.

"Thank...you," he said in a strained tone, the simple movement of taking the phone sending a jolt of pain through his chest. The phone was new, clean and unblemished. It almost felt wrong to touch something so pristine with his dirty, blood streaked hand.

She gave him a smile and went back to checking him for injuries, doting like a worried mother. The sentiment wasn't one he was familiar with. He tried to shake off the feeling and dialled Nat's mobile as fast as his shaking fingers would allow. She picked up on the second ring.

"Yes?" she snapped, sounding preoccupied and irritated.

"H-hello to you too," Clint bit out in as normal a tone as he could manage. "You busy?"

"Yes," she replied, and Clint could hear gunfire in the background of the call. They'd been doing independent hits for the last few weeks and most of them went pretty smooth. It was obvious this was not one of them. Clint felt bad for calling at all. "It's not a good time. What's wrong?"

"Oh y'know, Terminator tried to kill me. Same old, same old," he said, huffing a weak laugh that came out as more of a wheeze. "Why is everyone else super strong...'s not fair." He let out a high pitched pained whine when the old lady pressed a finger to his ribs. " _Fuck_. Gonna- gonna have- have to start powerlifting to- _ow_ \- keep up."

"Are you injured?" Nat asked, her tone serious and, if Clint didn't know any better, holding a note of concern.

He let out another pathetic breath that might've been a laugh in a past life. "When- when am I not?"

"Where are you?" Gunfire almost drowned her voice out altogether and Clint closed his eyes, hating that he was distracting her like this. He was a grown ass man; he could get himself back to the fucking motel no problem. Well, probably.

He wasn't even being attacked anymore and this kind Italian lady would help him out. Chances were, he'd be fine. Yet, here he was, putting Nat in danger for no fucking reason. Not that she would care much about his injury, he was sure. But a phone call in the middle of a gunfight was an annoyance she shouldn't have to deal with. Stupid idiot.

"Hey I- I gotta-" He hissed when the old lady made to pull him into a sitting position, shaking his head and wildly gesturing at her to _stop_ because _fucking no_. "-gotta go. I'll see you later, yeah?"

"What?" Nat snapped, bewildered by the whole conversation. "Do you need me to come-" Four crystal clear gunshots crackled down the line followed by dead silence. Nat's calm, controlled breathing echoed down the speaker as she settled herself. "I'm done here. I can come and get you. Just tell me where you are."

"No, no it's fine. I'm fine," Clint said, keeping his voice as even as he could though his teeth were clenched tight. "I'll find my own way back."

"Why did you call me then?" she asked, confused and, by the sound of it, somewhat annoyed by the whole thing.

 _Just wanted to hear your voice_ was what came to mind, dancing on the tip of his tongue. Clint felt a sickening rush of embarrassment make his cheeks flush and his stomach churn because, oh god, it might be the truth. He shook his head in disbelief, mouth gaping open but no words coming out. Where the fuck had _that_ come from?

"Hey no, you're- uh you're breaking up." He let out a cough that racked his ribs but cleared his head. "I'll meet you at the motel," he rushed out before he ended the call, his heart thudding painfully hard against his cracked ribs. He handed the phone back to the nice Italian lady who still had that soft, kind smile on her face.

"I'm sorry, thanks. Could you call me a cab or something? My- my ride's not able to make it," he wheezed, hoping his blush wasn't too noticeable. He'd already suffered through more than his fair share of humiliation today.

She gave him a gentle pat on the shoulder. "No problem," she said through a thick Italian accent. "Would you like an ambulance?"

Clint felt himself pale at the thought. "Rather not, no. Uh, taxi's fine. Or wait; do you have taxis in Italy?" At the unimpressed look on her face he groaned. "'m sorry, ignore me. Just delirious from the-" He gestured down at his body, unsure how to describe the amount of pain he was experiencing right now. "Wouldn't have some pain killers on you?"

She smiled and gave him a somewhat patronising pat on the head before shuffling her way back into the house. Clint, for his part, tried not to pass out while she was gone.

Twenty minutes later when Clint was bundled into his complimentary taxi cab he took one final look back at the attic window. The familiar anxiety that came with being inside a car was already beginning to twist his stomach into knots. He needed to distract himself, calm himself down.

It didn't help.

That haunting face stared right back at him, shrouded in shadows so thick it took Clint a few moments to pick it out. It didn't appear to want to attack him, just watching as he left. Clint was almost tempted to stay with the ninja dude if it meant he wouldn't have a panic attack on the drive to Naples.

He had to take out his hearing aids before they left, the amplified noise making him antsy and skittish. He was hot all over and his chest was burning, he was tense and exhausted and terrified for no rational fucking reason. He needed to pull himself together.

Clint turned back towards the front, balling his good hand into a fist and trying to calm his breathing.

He didn't relax until the car rolled to a stop outside his motel and he fell out the door in relief. The driver gave him a funny look when Clint paid him the fare. The dust caked on his skin, his clothes sliced to pieces and his refusal to speak the entire journey more than earned it.

Clint wasn't surprised to find he didn't give a damn.

Natasha was already there when Clint made it into their room, one hearing aid in and his injured hand clutched to his chest. She was making a cup of coffee, looking just as beaten into the ground as Clint felt. Wet mud clung to her clothes and hair and a bruise was already swelling at her right eye. She didn't appear to have broken any bones, but Clint spotted the uneven way she walked when she shuffled to the side, letting him at the coffee machine.

"You're limping," he pointed out, guilt curling in his stomach when he thought about the phone call earlier. Was she injured then? Or did she pick it up while he was talking and he never even noticed?

Whatever the injury was it didn't appear to phase her. She gave him a careless shrug. "It'll heal."

Instead of trying to find a clean mug in this shithole, Clint grabbed the coffee dispenser and drank straight from it with a satisfied sigh. Nat wrinkled her nose and smacked him lightly on the arm. "You're disgusting, Barton," she chastised, scoffing at the shit eating grin he sent her way.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his good hand. "C'mon, cut me some slack. I nearly died today."

She gave him a tiny smile and Clint had to fight down the surge of happiness the small expression sent through him. "You nearly die _every_ day, Barton. It's one of your talents."

Clint gasped in mock outrage. "There are posters all over the place that say I'm the greatest sharp-shooter known to man! I'm very talented."

Nat raised an eyebrow, drawing Clint's attention to the streak of grime that marred her forehead. "What kind of posters?"

Clint took another gulp of his coffee and held her gaze steady. "Circus posters. I had an outfit and everything," he said with a smirk, waiting for her to scoff or to laugh at him for it like most people did.

He wasn't ashamed of where he'd come from, he saw no point in it when the circus had made him the person he was today. And while shit had gotten pretty fucking ugly near the end there, he still loved that place regardless.

She didn't laugh. No circus freak jokes or a biting remarks about carnies. She didn't even poke fun at how he had a costume to wear while he danced like a performing monkey all those years ago.

Instead she gave him a curious look, leaning forward and setting her coffee on the counter. Clint noticed her hair was singed on the right side, the curls now uneven and scorched black. He wondered how the fuck that happened, but didn't ask.

"How old were you?" she asked.

He shrugged with an almost wistful smile on his face. "Started at eight, went on 'til I was like sixteen. Had a bow and arrow and everything. It was a pretty sweet gig."

She gave him a small smile back. "Sure sounds like it."

A comfortable silence stretched out between them. Clint spent it taking long, loving sips of his coffee and trying not to fall asleep on the kitchen counter. He shifted a little and winced when an agonising jab of pain shot through his ribs, snapping him out of his thoughtless reverie.

"Hey, by the way, I- I kinda need to ask you a favour," he said slowly. Natasha eyed him warily, one eyebrow raised.

"What?"

"Yeah, y'see...about the job I was doing..."

As retribution for making her go out only two hours after she'd got home, Clint cooked them both a large homemade bowl of pasta Bolognese. His cooking skills were a little rough and he only had a few meagre ingredients but Clint made do with that he had.

The result was edible enough and they both lounged on the couch with full stomachs, content after weeks of eating nothing but fast food. Nat mentioned that it was a crime they were not eating pizza whilst in Italy. Clint grumbled that of course the one time he makes dinner she complains about not ordering in. She laughed at that, not meaning a word of it.

That evening Nat set out again, freshly showered and decked out in clean clothes that didn't have a single rip in them. Clint couldn't exactly say he owned an outfit of such a description. Still, he let her borrow his hoodie when it became clear hers had been burned beyond recognition. She looked small and inconspicuous in the oversized jacket, which was perfect. It also hid the gun equipped with a silencer hidden in her pants better than could be hoped.

While he sat on the couch, a large packet of frozen peas strapped tight to his burning ribs, Clint knew Natasha was killing Giulio De Felice on his behalf. He did his best not to feel too bitter about not finishing the job himself, he'd asked after all, but it was irritating.

Clint tided himself over with gruesome fantasies of that rich bastard with a bullet between his eyes, staring up at him in shock. It worked better than it should have.

What if Nat was caught by the man with lightning fast reflexes and enough muscle to make Arnold Schwarzenegger weep? Could she survive such a formidable attacker? Clint shivered and didn't allow himself to entertain the possibility any more.

When Natasha came back and she told him De Felice was dead, Clint felt a tightness in his chest loosen that had nothing to do with his fucked up ribs. Apparently there had been no sign of a Terminator of any kind.

Clint ignored the rush of relief that ran through him and thanked her for her help. He'd promised her half the cash, so it wasn't exactly out of the goodness of her heart, but still. Clint adjusted his pack of peas a little and pulled out his burner phone to inform his client that De Felice was dead. He wanted a damn raise after this mess.

While he was there he checked for any new jobs he'd like to take up. Natasha had disappeared into the bathroom to clean herself up after her second job of the day. She was probably seconds away from passing out and he couldn't blame her. "Hey Nat! How does a trip to Helsinki sound?" he yelled, just to be an asshole.

He only just managed to duck the shoe she threw at his head.


	8. Chapter 8

****November 19th 2009****

Clint had never been in a fight quite like this before.

He shot a woman in the head when she charged him. He ducked a man's brass-knuckled fist and took him out with a shot to the stomach. Someone was behind him, their shadow blocking out the sun. Clint drew a knife from his boot and jammed it under their ribs, wet blood spurting from the wound in an arching spray. It drenched his hand and face in red, the knife's handle slippery in his grip. Clint had no time to think, he was already moving again. Whirling around to wrestle a carving knife from a man before he was stabbed in the back.

Someone punched him in the face but the pain hardly registered, Clint was too busy blowing the offender's kneecap out to notice.

His heartbeat pounded in his ears. He threw his knife into the chest of a man with a pistol and saw him crumple to the ground. Mouths opened in ear-splitting screams, Clint couldn't hear them. He rugby tackled someone to the concrete, smashing their skull against the ground until they stopped fighting back. He needed to get out. There were too many. Bullets ricocheted off the ground around him as Clint scrambled away from the thick of the brawl, taking cover in a nearby alleyway.

Clint's chest was heaving but he wasn't out of breath. Adrenaline flooded his veins but he wasn't panicking. He was bright and alert and ready, his Glock in one hand and Nat's knife in the other.

Budapest was turning out to be at tad more intense than Clint had expected.

'Nothing but another gang assault,' their client had said. 'You'll get in and out without a scratch.'

They had been very, _very_ fucking wrong.

Clint and Nat had found themselves in the centre of a full on gang war. Over what? Clint had no idea. The fighting had started moments after he had taken out his target, so that probably had something to do with it.

Tensions in the area were at an all-time high, both gangs suffering severe losses when shit began to escalate. Clint was pretty sure no one even knew what they were supposed to be fighting over anymore, but no one pointed that out. Clint's plan had been to use the hit to spark a fight between the rival gangs while they were negotiating a deal. They would attack each other in a fit of rage while Clint and Nat slipped into the shadows.

That is not what happened.

Well, the gangs had fought each other, sure. That was all fine and dandy.

But Clint, of course, hadn't been fast enough. Some asshole had spotted him when he'd ducked down for cover and after that, well. Clint had found himself fighting a small army and Natasha had followed with a roll of her eyes, her dual pistols twirling in her hands.

The fight seemed endless. Clint had lost sight of Nat almost immediately and then he'd been distracted. His entire world had narrowed down to fucking surviving this bloody, unrelenting hell he'd been thrown into. The attacks were ruthless and they came at him from all sides and at the beginning he'd struggled not to die. There'd been so much to focus on, so much to remember, too much to take in at once.

Nat's training had helped a whole fucking lot. Clint had found his body blocking attacks before his brain had even registered the movement. His reflexes taking over in a way they never had before. Soon he'd fallen into a sort of rhythm and after that, things became easier. He'd gone numb to the violence, his only thought to make it out of this alive. And huh, here he was. Alive. It had worked, kind of.

Now all he had to do was find Nat and get the fuck out of this shithole. Clint licked his dry lips, the coppery taste of blood bursting on his tongue from where the skin had split. They couldn't wait around, someone could get a lucky shot in at any moment.

Clint spotted a fire escape further down the alleyway and he ran to it, slipping his knife into his pocket before swinging himself up onto the metal steps. Confident any noise from his footsteps would be hidden under the shrieks and gunshots from the gangs below, Clint didn't bother with subtlety as he climbed.

When he reached the roof where he'd sat not fifteen minutes ago taking the killing shot, Clint poked his head over the side. He surveyed the fight, looking for Nat's distinctive flash of red hair in the crowd, he couldn't see her. The wind whipped furiously at his clothes and Clint felt the first droplets of rain begin to drip onto his head. Goddamnit _,_ as if this day couldn't get any worse.

He searched harder, worry tightening his chest as he once again couldn't catch sight of her. Then rain was pouring down now, but Clint didn't bother pulling up his hood. Where the hell was she? Was she injured? Taking cover? Dead?

Clint could feel his worry turn to panic at the thought, the heavy sheets of rain battering his back and obscuring his vision. The fight below him was losing momentum, those still standing bloody and ducking in and out of alleyways as best they could. Clint didn't know who was winning, nor did he care. Something more important near the back of the scuffle caught his eye.

It was Nat. Thank _fuck_.

The fleeting sense of relief Clint felt at the sight of her disappeared almost instantly.

A group of gangbangers surrounded Nat, forcing her into the centre of a tight circle. There was eight of them, maybe more. Clint wasn't sure where Nat's guns had gone but they weren't in her hands and that did nothing to prevent his oncoming heart attack.

She didn't look particularly phased by her position, her body coiled and ready to attack. She stood tall and confident; intimidating even though she was half the size of the smallest man there. Clint felt a small bubble of pride swell in his chest at the sight. Why had he been worried? Nat could take care of herself.

He watched, mesmerised, as the first thug lunged at her and she sprung.

Her movements were graceful, fluid as she snapped the man's wrist and stabbed him in the jugular with his own knife. Four of the gangbangers rushed her at once and for a second Nat disappeared under their tightly packed bodies. Clint's heart jumped to his throat, his gun raised; ready to intervene. But there was no clean shot, the chance of hitting Nat was too high. He knew he could do it if he was forced to, but it would be a risk.

Nat reappeared, just in time for Clint to see her take a vicious punch to the gut. She was stunned for all of three seconds before she whirled around, sliced her attacker's throat with a practiced precision.

Nat swept a thug's feet out from under him before shoving a pistol out of her face, the bullet flying over her shoulder into the guy coming up behind her. The circle of men around her stared at their fallen friends in horror, clearly unsure whether to flee or die fighting. Clint grinned to himself as he saw one of the thugs backing up, looking around himself like he was contemplating running away. Fucking coward.

But that thug wasn't running away. Oh no.

He was getting a running start.

To his credit, the timing was perfect. When Nat was preoccupied by a dude who had one beefy hand clenched around her neck the thug attacked her open back, a glint of something metal in his hand. Clint swore under his breath and in a second his gun was warm under his numb fingers, the thug dropping to the ground. A bullet in his brain.

All heads whipped towards him including Nat's. Clint had the gal to give her a playful salute and a cheery wave. She frowned up at him, confused, squinting as fat droplets of rain landed on her face. Maybe she couldn't see him? Clint's grin dropped a little when he saw her swaying where she stood, her hand coming up to pull something small from her neck.

Clint couldn't see it right from this distance but he could guess what it was. Nat's legs finally gave way and she collapsed onto the concrete.

Was it poison? Sedative? Goddamn these mother _fuckers_.

As a unit the gangbangers converged around Nat, dragging her body between them, away from the fight. Clint jammed his finger on the trigger, not caring about wasting ammo as the gun came to life under his hands. The wind was picking up, a physical push against Clint's tense body, droplets of rain hitting him in the face and forcing him to squint.

They were running around a corner but not all of them were quick enough, laden down with the deadweight of Nat's body as they were. Clint watched as one of them was caught in the hail of bullets, their body jerking with every hit before they dropped. Clint didn't feel good, he didn't feel anything other than blinding rage. And sure, maybe there was a thin line between fury and overwhelming panic, but no one need know that but him.

Clint broke into a run, building up momentum before jumping from his current perch to the next roof over. The gap was larger than he'd expected and he didn't _quite_ stick the landing. Still, he didn't brain himself against the side of the building either, so it wasn't so bad.

Clint flew down the rickety fire escape, the rain making the metal slippery under his feet but he didn't pay it any attention. He was sprinting now, careening around the corner in the direction the gangbangers had gone. His clothing was plastered to his skin, heavy and uncomfortable. He kept running.

He saw the assholes at the end of the street, sprinting around another corner. Clint sped up, his chest heaving with the exertion. It looked like these idiots were heading towards the docks. The weather would deter the majority of people but Clint still despised the public setting. Too many people. Too many eyes. Too many innocents to get in harms way.

The streets weren't as empty as he would like. Clint passed more than one shocked expression as he chased the gangbanger's coattails. The police would show up soon, for public disturbance if nothing else. He saw the gangbangers reach the riverside, the water swollen and churning with the wind and rain that blustered over the surface. They'd seen him, Clint knew, a few casting worried glances over their shoulders as they disappeared from his view. Clint was tiring, losing precious ground.

He pulled his gun from its holster, though he knew it was a stupid idea in such a public area. He didn't care anymore. He was getting desperate.

It wasn't until he finally rocketed onto the docks that he saw the gangbangers on a boat harboured about ten meters away from where Clint stood. The boat was a small thing, probably used for fishing, and it sat low in the water as the group bundled aboard. They might've looked inconspicuous if you didn't look too hard. One of them argued with a man dressed in dark green waterproofs, possibly the captain. The other two looked nervous, their eyes scanning the sparse crowd for any sign of Clint's approach.

Clint liked to make an entrance.

His hood was up, covering his face from security cameras, but his gun was in full view of the men on the boat, the weapon in plain sight. He tried not to feel too good about himself when a look of fear crossed the boy's face like he'd wet himself. One of them fumbled with something in their pocket, a gun no doubt, the one arguing with the fisherman now gesturing furiously with his hands.

Clint raised his gun, ready to defend himself, but didn't fire.

Yet, it was clear someone did.

The crowd around him erupted into pandemonium, some dropping to the dirty ground in front of him, their faces ashen and terrified. Three people slammed into him as they ran for cover, their hands over their heads like that would protect them from a bullet. Clint, for his part, took out two of the gangbangers with little effort. They went crashing into the water without a sound. Only one was still standing.

A man, red faced and shaking who hoisted Nat's unconscious body in one arm, a gun in the other and pressed it to her temple.

Clint stopped dead, his gun still pointed directly at the bastard's head. The guy was short, skinny and incredibly angry. Were the hair plastered across his forehead not black Clint might've mistaken him for a more pathetic Steve Rogers. The guy was shouting something at him, but Clint couldn't read his lips from here. It was probably something like 'don't move or I'll shoot' so Clint stayed where he was.

He saw the guy make a wild gesture towards the owner of the boat who had taken refuge in his cabin. Nat's chin rested on her chest and she swayed with the movement. Clint couldn't help but notice how precariously close to the edge she was, her feet dangling over the ocean. Fuck, this was such bullshit.

The engines were probably starting up, the boat sliding a little away from the dock. The guy was actually starting to grin when Clint finally had enough of standing in the rain like a moron.

In a sudden burst of speed, Clint switched the gun from his right hand to his left, aimed and fired. The guy didn't even have time to look surprised before he fell back onto the deck, a hole in his head. Instead of falling backwards safely onto the deck, Nat tumbled forward into the frothing grey water. Sinking fast like she had a stone tied to her ankle.

" _Fuck!_ " Clint shouted, a woman crouched in front of him flinching at the outburst, trembling with her fear. But Clint was already gone, tugging off his hoodie and jumping off the side of the docks, his only thought to get to Nat before she fucking drowned.

He hadn't thought this through. The water was so cold like an electric shock, instantly ripping the breath from his lungs. His muscles clenched painfully as he struggled not to inhale the water on impulse.

He couldn't see, the water so dark and murky he couldn't discern where the water stopped and the seabed began. When he managed to break the surface with a desperate gasp Clint didn't know where the fuck he was. The boat from which Nat had fallen was leagues away. Clint realised with a slight surge of hysteria that he didn't know where the fuck she went down.

He swam forwards anyway, the water unsettled and battering him about as he struggled to make progress. He'd never been a strong swimmer but he'd never swam like this. The water fighting against him with every stroke. Breathless, he accidentally swallowed a gulp of water and almost choked on the metallic taste of it.

When he thought he was roughly in the area Nat had fallen Clint took a deep breath and dove down into the depths.

To his astonishment the estimate wasn't far off.

Nat was only a few meters away, a pale beacon in the midst of the obscure gloom. Alarmed at her lack of movement, Clint swam over to her, hooking his arm around her small frame and desperately kicking towards the surface. Instead of pushing towards the surface, Clint found himself being dragged down. Nat was a dead weight against him, drawing him towards the seabed no matter how hard he fought it. _Fuck_ he was running out of breath real fucking quick too.

Lungs burning, Clint adjusted his hold on the woman, using both his legs to slowly pull them towards the surface. His muscles were freezing up, stiff and numb as the water seeped into his very core. What couldn't have been more than a few seconds felt like hours, the treacherous undercurrent tugging at his body and forcing them both down.

When Clint finally broke the surface he welcomed the sharp, burning sting of the wind against his face. Desperately gulping in huge lungfuls of air, clearing his head and soothing the ache his chest. In his relief he almost lost his grip on Nat's waist and had a minor heart attack, holding her with a vicelike grip as he fought to keep them both afloat. This shit was way fucking harder than he'd thought it'd be. Nat didn't appear to be breathing and oh _fuck_.

Clint could see citizens standing on the docks, some of them looked to be cheering but Clint wasn't sure why. They were waiting for him to get there, maybe to arrest him for the whole gun thing. Who fucking cared at this point - Nat was dying.

Muscles burning he swam as fast as he could to the edge of the docks, the rain still pelting him in the face with no sign of stopping. When he reached it, Clint realised he couldn't lift Nat onto the wooden platform without drowning himself in the process. But just as the thought crossed his mind a blonde woman peered over the edge. Her arms outstretched towards him and her mouth moving too fast for him to understand.

He had no time to hesitate. Clint could feel Nat shivering against him and he was starting to lose all feeling in his legs. They needed to get the fuck out of here and fast.

Accepting the help, he lifted Nat up as far as he could for the civilian to pull her onto solid ground. He immediately followed, gracelessly heaving himself up onto the damp wood; his arms shaking with the exertion.

Clint wasn't sure if it was better inside the water or out of it. His limbs trembled and refused to do what he wanted them to as he scrambled towards Nat's prone body; only joined by the blonde woman who had helped him pull her up. The rest of the crowd held back, wary, some clearly on their phones to someone but Clint had no idea who.

Nat's skin was an unhealthy shade of grey, her thin lips unnaturally pale, tinged blue. He grabbed her shoulders and gave her a gentle shake which was fucking stupid. She was drugged for god's sake.

Or dead, his mind supplied helpfully and for a second Clint's heart stopped. Grabbing Nat's limp wrist in one hand he pressed his fingers to it, desperate for a pulse. Jesus, her skin was like ice. The civilian woman beside him was tapping him on the shoulder but for a moment all Clint could focus on was the weak, fluttering pulse under his frozen fingertips. He could have melted in relief.

The blonde appeared to be talking, swaying and moving around like Clint could possibly understand what the fuck she was saying. To save valuable time, Clint grabbed her by the shoulder, clearly startling her for a second but having no time to apologise. "Do you know CPR?" he asked as best he could, his teeth chattering violently against the words. Did she speak English? He sure hoped so.

"No," was clear on the woman's lips. Shit, okay.

Clint looked to the crowd that had curiously mover closer and asked the question again, this time louder. His eyes flickered from face to face for a second before Clint dismissed the idea. He could do this. He'd seen Barney do this before. It'd be fine.

Trying his hardest to remember Clint tilted her head back, checking for any sign of breathing and finding nothing. Okay, okay, okay. Shit. Taking a deep breath, Clint didn't allow himself a moment of hesitation before he covered her mouth with his own, pinching her nose hard and blowing air into her lungs.

When Barney did this it'd been years ago. They'd still been in the circus. Barney's best friend, Marcus - the circus' only magician - had attempted to imitate Houdini's Water Torture Cell trick and had fucked up in every way possible. Poor Marcus had always been a shit magician.

Remembering his brother's movements, Clint without pause placed both his hands in the centre of Nat's chest and pressed down hard. His muscles felt weak under the strain but Clint kept going regardless. Fuck, how many of these was he supposed to do? He hadn't exactly been fucking counting back then. He'd been more worried about the water ruining the only shoes he owned, the smashed tank spilling water all over the floor, creeping toward his feet.

God, he'd been a stupid child.

After several more seconds, Clint alternated back to her mouth, blowing hard enough to see her chest rise before going back to compressions. God he hoped he wasn't hurting her. He had no idea if what he was doing was wrong, but no one seemed to be stopping him. What if CPR wouldn't work when she was sedated? What if it hadn't been a sedative but a quick acting poison? What if all of this had been for fucking nothing.

Marcus had died limp and dripping in Barney's arms that day. Barney had never been the same afterwards.

Clint doubled his efforts.

The woman beside him suddenly began pushing at him, shoving him away from Nat. Confused, Clint shrugged her off until she gave him a particularly hard push, elbowing him out of the way so she could roll Nat over onto her side. At first Clint was angry, pushing against the woman's warning hand on his chest. He thought for an addled moment that if he paused for a mere second Nat would die right there and then. And for all he knew, it was true.

But then he saw the independent rise and fall of Nat's chest, her eyes flying open and her body convulsing violently as she coughed up water and vomit. It was kind of gross, but admittedly inevitable. He was so lightheaded he might've cried in relief, muscles going slack as he tried to remember how to breathe right. Guilt made his chest tight and his stomach churn. She could've been choking to death right in front of him and he wouldn't have heard.

He should've thought of it. He should've known.

Clint shot the blonde woman an apologetic smile, hoping he looked as grateful as he felt before he crawled over to Nat's side again. She'd finished vomiting, her body visibly trembling and she was clearly struggling to move anything from the neck down. He gently rolled her onto her back again, brushing her hair out of her face. Terrified wide eyes fixed onto him and staying there; clearly relieved to see a familiar face.

The blonde woman gave Clint a gentle nudge, handing him a blanket that someone from the crowd must've fetched. With a grateful nod he draped it over Nat's shivering body, not sure how the fuck it was going to help but not seeing how it could make things worse. Nat was looking at him with true terror in her eyes and Clint wasn't sure what he could do to make it better. He grabbed her freezing cold hand in his and held it tight, offering her that small comfort. He'd never held her hand before, it felt oddly small and fragile in his palm.

As the drugs slowly began to leave her system Nat's shaking only became worse. Clint huddled closer, wrapped the blanket tighter around her and doing his best to shield her from the rain. It was a futile effort, but he did it anyway.

The small gathering of people around them had dispersed a little but they still hung around in his peripheral vision. Though he couldn't hear the sirens Clint was sure emergency services would arrive in a few minutes. Probably with some asshole police officers and some awkward questions. But Clint stayed where he was, holding Nat's hand. He would wait until the ambulance arrived before taking off. Maybe send the blonde stranger who had been so kind a fruit basket or something as a thank you.

Clint tried not to jump when Nat's hand squeezed his. She opened her mouth like she was trying to speak but he shook his head, stopping her. Clint's jacket hadn't been returned to him, the bare skin of his arms stinging and flaring up red like he'd been burned by the bitter cold. He was oddly detached from the pain, but then Clint was not in the best state of mind. He was almost certain he was going to pass out and sleep for a fucking week as soon as he got out of here.

Then Nat's head snapped to the side, hand squeezing Clint's hand hard enough to cut off the blood flow. He followed her gaze to see a distinctive white and orange van parked at the end of the docks, paramedics streaming from it. The blonde woman was talking to them, directing them to where Nat and Clint sat. He thought for a dim moment that he probably should've carried Nat away from the edge of the pier. Then again, he didn't think he'd have the strength to stand up, never mind drag anyone anywhere.

When the paramedics reached them Clint didn't let go of Nat's hand. The green uniformed EMTs bustled around them, all professional touches and practiced movements. Someone held Nat's head still, double checking she hadn't broken it - something Clint hadn't even considered.

They shone lights into her eyes, draped another blanket over her. In less than three minutes they were running over with a stretcher. Ready to whisk her off to hospital and undo whatever damage Clint had done in the past five minutes. He had to let go of her hand then, but Clint didn't have any time to mourn the loss.

A moment later there was a group of policemen running toward him, guns out and shouting. Clint was already on his knees and he was almost glad for it. He was pretty sure if they asked him to move any more he would've collapsed. But hey, it wasn't like he spoke Hungarian so their requests were lost on him anyway.

He could see the blonde civilian woman waving at him to get his attention, putting her hands behind her head and motioning for him to do the same. Clint copied her even though it made his muscles burn. The men with guns, the civilians, they all seemed to relax for it. A tension he wasn't aware of bleeding out of the atmosphere to everyone's relief. The blonde must've caught on to his slight communication problem, then. He wondered if she would tell anyone.

When the cops slapped a pair of cuffs on him and practically had to lift him into the cop car they probably thought he was being defiant. Clint knew that they were wrong, though it hurt his pride, his knees would no doubt go out from under him if he tried to walk by himself. For his part, Clint tried his best not to lose consciousness completely until they got to the police station.

* * *

Clint slept through the time he was supposed to be waiting for the officers to arrive, and then maybe 40% of his actual interrogation.

The fight to keep his eyes open was lost before it had even begun. They'd selected a man and woman who spoke English at varying degrees of fluency. It hardly mattered, they both looked at him like he was a fucking madman anyway. Which was fine. It probably would've bothered him more if he didn't know what he looked like in that moment. But the two-way mirror opposite him made that impossible.

His cheekbone was swelling purple with an impressive shiner, the skin tender and throbbing in time with his pulse. He'd shaved his head for a job a few weeks back, Nat's idea, and it'd turned out pretty good. Now it was growing back he had an army buzz cut thing going on, his face harsh and angular in the unflattering lighting. With his pissed off expression and clear physical strength, Clint might've passed as intimidating were he not half asleep the entire time.

The dude was way friendlier than the woman, Clint found. His dark hair was long, pulled back into a neat ponytail at the back of his head, an amiable, unassuming grin on his face. He was undeterred by Clint's subdued silence, even going so far as to push a steaming cup of coffee towards him before the interview began.

The woman was quite the opposite; stern faced, demanding and pissed off. Honestly Clint didn't like how the whole 'good cop, bad cop' thing was playing out. The whole thing seemed way too scripted to be real. After all, hadn't that technique died out in the '80s? Clearly not, but it was so dumb it really should've.

The dude asked if he needed a doctor.

Clint played with the idea of the doctor; buy himself some time and find out if he'd broken anything important today. Eventually he decided against speaking at all.

The police had evidence, probably overwhelming evidence that shit had gone down. The question was could they link it to Clint within the span of 24 hours?

His Glock was swimming at the bottom of the ocean but the CCTV footage could be incriminating if he hadn't hidden his shots well enough. If a shooter couldn't be found would they put it down to local gang activity? Clint had no way of knowing for sure, but he'd like to think he'd been careful. Enough that the police would have little to support their claims and he'd get out of here scot free.

In the meantime though, he had to keep these guys occupied. Joy.

"[-] [woman?] you [res-] [from?] the water, [-] you [no?] her?" the dude asked, slightly slumped in his chair, posture relaxed and unassuming. It was such a drastic contrast to the policewoman beside him who sat with her back ram-rod straight and her chin tilted up high. Clint wondered if even that was planned. Was this what they taught at police academy these days? If it was then they were wasting their time. After all, it wasn't intimidating just _super_ fucking weird.

Clint stayed silent for a few long minutes. The guy seemed persistent; probably prepared to wait for hours. Clint took a sip of his coffee, wondering if that was protocol too. You'd never know with the cops. Could never trust them.

If they wanted to be stubborn, that was fine. He could wait. It wasn't like he was going anywhere.

The officers stared at him. Clint glared back like the moody brat they were expecting.

They sat like that for way too long - a silent battle of wills that seemed endless.

Clint wondered how Nat was. If she was as cold as he felt right now. Even after being out of the water for over an hour he could still feel the cold in his bones, stiffening his joints and tightening his chest. He coughed more than once, a harsh guttural sound that had the policeman frowning at him in concern. The woman was frowning too, but Clint suspected that may be her default expression. It was a shame too, she might've been beautiful if she didn't have such a scowl on her face.

He was just in the middle of an admittedly kind of worrying coughing fit, his chest aching, throat burning, when the man finally cracked.

Letting out a frustrated sigh the dude leaned across the interview table, gesturing to Clint to come closer. When Clint didn't move he sighed again but relented, talking in a muffled whisper that Clint couldn't actually hear. Clint forced his expression to stay the same as he watched the guy's lips with no real idea what he was saying.

The gist of it seemed to be that Nat had sold him out, which was hilarious on its own. Clint bit back a laugh as the cop said he only wanted to hear Clint's side of the story, to help him out, get him out of here unscathed. His expression was open, kind, expectant.

The cop clearly thought Clint had so little faith in Nat that he would break at the first wind of betrayal.

This time last year he probably would've been right.

But so much had changed since then and it surprised Clint how much trust he had in her. The thought to believe it didn't even register. That probably should have scared him more than it did.

As it was, Clint laughed.

He laughed until the amicable expression turned sour and those kind eyes filled with barely disguised anger. To Clint's amusement the cop even went so far as to storm out, slamming the door behind him with such force it shuddered.

The policewoman opposite him rolled her eyes, muttering something about dramatics.

Clint laughed harder.

* * *

Clint was released only because the police legally couldn't hold him any longer.

He discovered his client had double crossed him - planning to kidnap an assassin and forcing them to work for him because he couldn't afford the fee. Apparently he hadn't expected for an professional assassin to bring backup. Clint was very glad to prove the cowardly little prick wrong.

Clint didn't kill him as soon as he found him. Instead, when she was allowed to leave the hospital, Clint let Natasha do the honours herself in a place where no one could hear the guy scream.

Clint would take what happened in that room to the grave, but he couldn't find it in himself to regret it.

In the end there was hardly any body left to bury. Nat couldn't look at the final grotesque results of her handiwork and left before Clint could say anything.

They moved on.


	9. Chapter 9

****December 1st 2009****

Clint lay awake, hunger gnawing at his stomach in a dull, unending ache. There was nothing he could do about it and wow didn't that just fucking suck. That morning he and Nat had made an unexpectedly quick exit from Brasilia and as a result Clint's stomach was almost as empty as his wallet.

The whole thing had been a freak accident. Well, accident was a strong word. He'd blown up a building, and yeah, it hadn't been part of the plan, hell the target hadn't even been in the building.

But the place was small, no more than three floors, and Clint had been pretty sure the place was deserted anyway. He should've checked first, he knew he should've. But he'd been a little carried away at the time, no time to think, no time to breathe.

The excuses hardly mattered. The point was, he'd fucked up, people died.

Nat had bought them plane tickets to Argentina. She wouldn't so much as look at Clint for the entire 4 hour trip. It was kind of funny, actually. Clint got the impression she was more mad about him fucking up their cover than the civilians he'd killed. He couldn't say he felt the same way. Hell, maybe he deserved the hunger, a weak punishment though it was.

After all, it was his fault they'd ended up stranded in Buenos Aires with no food, no money and no back up plan. It was his fault flowers now lined the street in Brasilia; a memorial to five people killed in his fuck up.

He didn't know what to do or how to fix it.

There was nothing he could do, no way to save those people, no way to stop the guilt that constricted his heart every time he thought about it.

He'd never killed an innocent person before. No civilian had ever walked into his line of fire. But now five people were dead - crushed under five thousand tons of concrete and it was all his fucking fault, all his fault and- and oh God. He was going to throw up.

Blowing out a heavy breath Clint tugged off his jacket, the air in the stuffy motel room doing little to cool his clammy, almost feverish skin. His harsh breaths echoed eerily loud in the strange stillness of the room. Beside him, Nat slept on. Or at the very least, she pretended to, her back pressed against a wall and her eyes closed. She'd insisted on the floor beside the bed as usual, batting away all Clint's protests like they were nothing. The hygiene in this place was the worst Clint had ever seen - the circus had more sanitary animal cages - but that was probably why it was so cheap.

Bandages peeked out from under Nat's blouse, wrapped around the fragile ribs Clint had broken weeks ago - CPR, so it seemed, wasn't as easy as it looked.

Natasha had been less than impressed. Now basic first aid had been added to his combat training and to his surprise, things were going well. Clint could neatly clean, sew up and properly bandage his own open wounds before the end of the first night. High on his own astonishment and triumph, Clint hadn't been thinking quite right when he'd asked, "How the hell do you know all this stuff?"

Nat had not dodged the question as he'd expected. She'd looked tired and shaken, her eyes distant as though lost in a memory. "They taught me not to put my life into other people's hands. Injuries are weakness, knowing how to heal them yourself is essential for survival." She'd seemed to snap back into focus, shaking her head a little before meeting Clint's eyes with a quiet determination. "It is important you learn."

She never told him who 'they' were.

In Buenos Aires they now huddled together in the only motel that would accept them. A nearby streetlight glared through the window and straight into Clint's eyes; a harsh orange glow - constant, irritating. He didn't move away, he didn't have the energy to. Instead he closed his eyes, waiting for sleep to claim him and put him out of his misery.

His stomach let out a growl and Clint groaned in exasperation. Hunger was no stranger to him; hell, were it not for Barney, he probably would've died from it years ago. But fuck, that didn't mean he _enjoyed it_.

If anything it just brought up bad memories that should've stayed good and buried. There'd been too many days he'd gone hungry because the circus didn't have enough to go round. There'd been too many weeks in his life in which he'd eaten so little his body couldn't handle solid food when it was given.

Natasha surely was hungry too, she had to be, yet she hadn't mentioned anything. Then, maybe she hadn't found the time to complain.

She'd spent most of the evening taking paranoid calls from clients; hours spent assuring them that this disaster was a one-off. Clint knew that in this business, reputation was everything - the duo of Black Widow and Hawkeye had taken the criminal underground by storm. They had the luxury of being picky with who they worked for, which was near unheard of. But with a stunt like this Clint knew he'd tarnished that impeccable record. One botched job was all it took. Things were going to be difficult from here on out and they both knew it.

Clint couldn't find it in himself to be worried, though he knew should. It was too hard. He couldn't concentrate when he was so hungry. He tortured himself with thoughts of pizza; the cheese melted and stringy and weighed down with toppings. Thick slices of apple pie, tangy and sweet and sticky on his tongue and those bitter ciders they used to sell from market stalls at Halloween. He dreamt of curry so hot it made your eyes water and ice cream so cold it left your mouth and teeth numb and your head aching with brain freeze.

Clint forced his eyes open before he could die of longing. Was that possible? Probably. Clint was sure he could make it happen if he kept at it long enough; stabbing pains shooting through his stomach.

Dazed, almost lazy in the heat and the hunger and the exhaustion, Clint looked down at Nat's beautiful, sleeping face and sighed. He pushed all thought of food aside as best he could. There was nothing that could be done until they finished their next hit. That was it. Enough feeling sorry for himself.

The rusty springs under him creaked as he heaved himself into a sitting position and Clint cringed at the sound, shooting a wary glance at Nat. Thankfully, she didn't stir.

Clint had kept his aids in tonight. He hated it, but he hated the thought of getting stabbed more. He didn't trust these people, this place, none of it. How could he? This room smelled of nothing but stale sweat, mould and the family of mice living under the floorboards. He wasn't keen on letting his guard down here, and from the knife he'd seen held loosely in Nat's hand, neither was she.

His eyes caught on an unopened bottle of cheap champagne set on the bedside locker and a smile tugged at his lips. Hey, maybe this place wasn't so bad after all. Free alcohol was a win in anyone's book.

Beside it sat one of Natasha's pistols, unloaded and stripped, clearly left out to be cleaned before they left. He studied it for a few moments, letting his mind slip into a sleepy stupor for the first time all night.

Natasha was born to wield those guns, Clint thought dopily. This life of living from place-to-place, country-to-country and leaving a trail of bodies in their wake - she was made for it. It was clear in everything about her, from the way she moved to the way she talked. She was the perfect assassin. The perfect killer.

And yet, that wasn't all she was. Clint could see something else in her; the light shining through the cracks. She had protected him, taught him, sewn him up when he was injured and fought alongside him like it was the most natural thing in the world. He'd never had anyone like that before, not one, and it was nothing short of incredible.

While she may not trust him, hell she may not even _like_ him, Clint could feel a tight knot of trust between them that tied him to her like a lasso. He would never admit to it, of course, but that was besides the point.

Wait - was that – what _was_ that

His thoughts brought to an unceremonious halt, Clint opened his eyes with a confused frown. The dull silence of the motel had been shattered by a quiet, breathy whimpering directly beside him. It was muffled, so quiet that for a moment he thought his hearing aids were playing up on him. But no, when he opened his eyes he found Nat curled tightly in on herself, the noises escaping her even though her lips were practically zipped closed. Her breath came quick and distressed; trapped in a nightmare. Another one. They'd plagued her sleep ever since Budapest and they were only getting worse. More frequent, more intense.

It surprised Clint that water was what it took to get under Natasha's skin. Something that scared her enough to torment her in the dark. And she _was_ scared, there was no doubt about it. Clint even had a theory it was why she'd been so determined to go to the centre of Brasilia for their last job. Nice and landlocked, no large body of water for miles. _Safe_.

It was strange. Clint had never known her to be afraid before. Hell, if he was honest with himself he'd always thought of her as something relentless, unshakable, an unstoppable force of nature and this... it... it made her so _human_ that it threw him for a moment.

She didn't allow herself to scream, her lips pressed tight against any disruptive sounds she may have released. Some nights she cried. Clint didn't hold it against her but he had never mentioned it either. Honestly he wasn't sure what he was supposed to say. What could he do to make it better? What kind of switch could he flick that would make everything okay? Keeping quiet seemed like the easiest option available and so that's what he went with. After all, Clint wasn't good with emotions; he could barely manage his own.

The street lamp that cast the room in a fluorescent orange glow flickered and shut off, the sun painting everything in a pale, watery yellow light. With a quiet huff Clint heaved himself out of bed, sleep no longer an option. They had to be out of this place before noon and Clint didn't want to linger, his frayed nerves alive and buzzing as he reached out a hand to nudge Natasha awake.

Nothing but sheer luck saved his face from the knife that swiped towards him, missing his nose by mere inches.

Clint didn't have time to react before the blunt hilt of the knife came back, striking him in the temple and sending him sprawling. "Fuck!" The back of Clint's knees hit the edge of the bed and he lost his balance, collapsing onto his back with a surprised oof. She was on him in an instant, stabbing the knife down in a vicious arc.

He caught her wrist just in time to send the swing wide, a huge slash appearing in the mattress above his shoulder. "Нет!" Nat shouted, her eyes wide and terrified and so vacant Clint wondered if she could even recognise his face. "нет! нет! Больше никогда. Я не вернусь к ним. Я скорее умру!" she shrieked and Clint struggled to kick her off him, her small body far stronger than he remembered. He could barely move.

He'd always had an inkling she'd been holding out on him when they sparred, but Jesus _Christ_.

When she attacked next it was sloppy, so unlike her that Clint could easily send her knife clattering to the floor. He felt a surge of hope swell in his chest at the slip up. Was she coming back to herself? His mouth ran almost on autopilot as he struggled to hold her still, "Hey, hey, hey Natasha, hey look at me, stop! Stop! Hey, it's me! Yeah? It's Clint. C'mon, you _know_ me."

It was clear she didn't agree. Weapon now gone, Nat grabbed a pillow from the top of the bed and pressing it over his face, leaning her weight into it. Suddenly Clint couldn't take in a full breath.

All semblance of sportsmanship left him, survival instinct and a healthy dose of Natasha's training kicking in. His hand shot up to scratch at her face, her eyes, her hair, _anything_ to get her the _fuck off_.

Something wet splattered his fingers when Natasha's grip finally loosened and Clint wasted no time. He tore the pillow from her grip and rolled them, sitting himself heavily on her stomach, knees either side of her waist to keep her trapped beneath him. "нет!" she screamed, her hands coming up to claw at his face just as he had done to her, just as she had taught him. She wasn't scared anymore, she was furious, her pale face contorted with unconcealed rage. "Отпусти меня! Отпусти меня!"

He'd never seen her careful control, her unbreakable composure so utterly shattered. She was wild and blind with anger and fear. This woman he'd only ever caught glimpses of before - the massacre in Rennes, the disastrous party in Germany. The woman who didn't waste time on precision or technique, but tore straight through anyone that dared stand in her way. Who liked her revenge brutal and bloody, warm and dripping.

Clint knew he couldn't hold her down for long. She herself had taught him at least five methods for breaking out of such a position, but he was too panicked to think of anything else. He couldn't fight her and win, he never could and that was when she was _humouring him_.

Clint's frantic eyes (which had, by some miracle, _not_ been scratched from his face just yet) latched onto the bottle of champagne. Sitting on the bedside locker, minding it's own business.

An idea forming in his head, he glanced down at Nat, the bloody scratches he'd left across her face.

She was going to kill him anyway. Fuck it.

He dived forward, the movement unexpected and startling Nat enough that her attack stopped for a moment. It was enough for Clint's fingers to close tightly around the neck of the bottle. He smashed it against the wooden locker, the cheap booze spraying them both with the sticky liquid. He pressed the razor sharp edge to the vulnerable skin of Nat's neck, dangerously close to her jugular. She froze, both of them breathing hard.

Clint met her eyes, his skull throbbing in time with his heartbeat. They were both hot and sweaty and now drenched in champagne. And not even _good_ champagne. It was a bad situation all around.

He saw the moment her eyes cleared. Shock, fear, horror bleeding into their emptiness before she looked away. She thrashed against his hold on her, twisting his arm in a way that Clint had no choice but to let go unless he was willing to break his arm to keep her there. He released her and rolled off, falling back on the mattress with a tired huff. The broken bottle dropped from his limp grip and joining the puddle of champagne on the linoleum floor.

Now free, Natasha was off the bed in an instant. She crossed the room, as far from Clint as she could manage, and he could see her hands shake as she reached out to grab her jacket and tugged it on. The scratches on her face weren't bleeding anymore but a smear of red still painted a good half of her cheek, her nails stained with Clint's blood.

Clint wasn't sure what to do from here.

A tense, uncomfortable silence hung between them. Nat looked like she was prepared for him to swing a punch. Sure, he could. But what would be the point in that? She would only win.

Instead Clint heaved himself off the bed and shuffled off, giving Nat a tight smile before disappearing into the bathroom in search of a towel. After a few minutes deliberating Clint picked the cleanest one on offer and re-emerged, towel in one hand and a tiny bottle of antiseptic in the other. He carried it everywhere he went now; a new addition to his possessions ever since his first aid training started up.

He found Nat collapsed into the only chair in the bedroom, her face turned away from him, towards the window. The chair sagged sadly beneath her, the stuffing inside the cushion long gone.

"Hey," he croaked, the word trailing off and dying in his throat, smothered by the strained awkwardness that surrounded them. Nice work, idiot.

He cleared his throat. "You wanna clean those cuts? I mean, this isn't the most hygienic place to have an open wound, y'know."

Nat shook her head, still not looking at him.

Clint shrugged and poured some antiseptic on the towel anyway, bringing it up to his own face and dabbing at the scrapes she'd left there. "Son of a bitch that _burns_ ," he hissed, his tone a little closer to a whine than he'd like to admit before he remembered this wasn't the time for bitching. "So, you gonna tell me what the fuck that was about?"

Her posture didn't change. She'd been waiting for the questions to come.

"It's nothing," she said, her voice calm, almost robotic in it's strict composure, though it didn't quite hide her slight Russian inflection. "I'm handling it."

Clint looked at his feet, the broken glass littering the floor crunching under his shoes. He absentmindedly scrubbed at where she'd hit him with her knife, the bruise already itchy and beginning to swell. "Yeah, sure looks like it."

"It's not something I can just-" Nat stopped and Clint had had enough of talking to the back of her head. He crouched in front of where she sat, her head down. Almost out of reflex Clint found himself reaching out to touch her. His hand was already in motion when he remembered what had set this whole mess off in the first place. He reluctantly curled it into a fist and brought it to his side.

"Hey, c'mon, look at me."

She did, raising her head just enough that the protective curtain of red hair fell away. Her expression was so haggard with guilt, resignation, that Clint could hardly believe this was Natasha. The same Natasha who handed him his ass regularly. The scratches on her cheek were shallow, barely below surface level. One was deeper than the others, dried blood black against her pale skin. Clint did his best to hide his shock, but from the look on her face he was unsuccessful.

Clint offered her the towel as a sort of peace offering. "Go on. You got blood all over your face. I can't have you going around lookin' like that."

Nat stared at him incredulously for a moment before taking the towel and scrubbing it against her face without complaint. "Your head is swelling," she finally offered, her voice no less clinical but just a little softer.

Yes, Clint had no doubt it was. He could feel it throb as it formed a solid blue lump just above his temple. He would have a black eye tomorrow too which was just _fantastic_. Hey, maybe Nat would lend him some of her makeup to cover it up. In the meantime, though, he just snorted. "This is hardly the time for insults."

"You know what I mean, idiot," she replied and, yes, there it was. That tiny quirk at the corner of her mouth. He loved that smile, no matter how little he saw it.

"Hey, again with the insults, Romanoff. Words hurt too, y'know."

Clint was just teasing but he should've known that the elephant in the room could only be avoided for so long. Nat was quiet for a long moment before gritting out. "I'm sorry. For - for hurting you. I didn't mean-."

"So you don't know what your doing, then?" he asked, intentionally cutting her off because an apology from the Black Widow wasn't something he could handle right now.

She held his stare, refusing to break eye contact. It felt more like an interrogation than a talk between friends. Like a mission debrief from a loyal soldier. "I'm conscious of my actions, but I'm incapable of stopping myself. My only objective is to eliminate my target, whatever means necessary."

Clint raised an eyebrow, trying to digest that. "So...I was...your target?"

Nat shook her head. "No, of course not. But I thought you were."

He stared at her with a bemused expression. Everything had been far less confusing when she was just swinging a knife at his face. "Right...that...makes sense."

Nat opened her mouth and then hesitated, shutting it again. She was stalling, wondering how much she would tell him. Clint wasn't overly surprised that she was hiding things from him, - honestly, what was new? - but what did surprise him was the small pang of hurt in his chest at the thought.

It was a rare day that Clint Barton gave a shit about anyone. And if he did, it certainly wasn't like this. He couldn't remember the last time he'd actually cared about another person's life. What they'd gone through to get to this point. What made them who they were.

But, as with so many other things, Nat was the exception. She was the only constant in the ever changing shitfest he called a life. Of course he cared. It felt like he had no other choice _but_ to care.

Well, that and the fact that attacking him with no warning and apologising for it afterwards really tended to give his curiosity a boost.

"The people who raised me, trained me. They did - they're my target." She made it sound like this was a completely normal occurrence for her. Maybe it was. "I just - I wasn't awake enough to tell what was real and I thought -" Nat stopped, biting her lip before she shook her head and dropped her gaze. "It doesn't matter. I'm handling it."

"So you keep saying," Clint said frowning, filing the information away for later. She clearly didn't want to talk about these people, whatever they had done. He wanted to know more, so much more, but he didn't have the right to ask.

Clint wasn't really sure how these conversations were supposed to work. He didn't know what signs he should look for that would spell out 'THIS IS OKAY'. But when nothing else was forthcoming he just did what he always did and went with the first thing he could think of to fill the silence. "This kinda thing, does it happen a lot?"

At that Nat looked up a little, like she hadn't been expecting the question. She shook her head. "I normally feel when my control starts slipping, get away. But it's been worse since Budapest, and you _surprised_ me," she said, spitting out the word 'surprised' like it was a dirty curse. It was the most emotive she'd been since the fight.

Another strange thing about Nat seemed to click into place in Clint's head. He remembered the hours she spent locked behind bathroom doors, demanding to be left alone and being elusive and vague when she came back out. This was the big secret. The answer to what went on behind closed doors.

Clint wondered if it would be better if those doors had stayed closed.

"Well, I swear I won't make the same mistake twice," he promised, finally straightening out of his crouch. He did his best to adopt the same casual tone he always used, but it was hard when the air around him was so heavy with unspoken emotions. "Lets get outta here and get some cash already. I'm fucking starving."

He moved to find his guns and suit up, his hands working on muscle memory while his mind whirled with everything he'd just learned, all the questions he had. It took a few minutes but by the time he was ready to go Nat still hadn't moved from her seat, staring out the window at the early-morning crowds.

Clint nudged her and handed her her pistol, now cleaned, put back together and ready for action. "C'mon, Nat. I'm gonna buy a pizza the size of my head, let's move it."

She seemed to give herself a little shake before she nodded, slipping her guns into their holsters without another word. She stood, striding towards the door with her usual confidence like nothing had happened, nothing had changed.

It was dumb, but Clint got the feeling everything had changed, for better or for worse.

And knowing his luck, Clint could guess which he would get.


	10. Chapter 10

****December 21st 2009****

Clint refused to take the blame for this one.

For once he was completely innocent. Natasha was watching him like she wanted to punch him in the face, but it wasn't his fault this time. Seriously, it wasn't.

They'd been in Warsaw, just working a job like any other. It had been Clint's turn to take out the guy - some small-time gang leader with a surprisingly large bounty on his head. He wasn't loving the job or anything - the dude didn't seem to have done much wrong only sell weed and threaten a few assholes once or twice - but a job was a job and money was tight. Clint didn't get the luxury of being picky.

It was done. The whole thing had been clean as hell, because, contrary to popular belief, Clint was _good_ at his job most of the time.

But he was just heading back to meet up with Natasha when he realised a few guys were on his ass. Honestly that wasn't even a problem. It was Clint's average Tuesday night. About ten minutes into the fight Nat came to see what all the gunshots were about. After that the fight was going about as well as could be expected with seven against two.

Everything was going completely fine until someone pulled a machine gun out of their ass.

That was just taking the piss.

"Oh come on!" Clint shouted at the sudden burst of rapid fire, throwing himself behind the same wall Nat had taken cover behind. The gun followed him, fire chewing up the concrete where his feet had just been. "That is fucking overkill!"

Nat shot him a sharp look as she reloaded her pistol. Like the adult he was, Clint stuck his tongue out in retaliation. Or at least, he tried to. In that moment debris rained down on them from above; the bullets chipping away at their wall and burrowing deep into the bricks behind them.

The bombardment wasn't stopping. Clint crawled closer to Nat, her face and hair now powder grey. He knew he was no better. The dust had coated his mouth, dry and gritty and choking. He couldn't concentrate, eyes burning and lips cracked as he tried to turn his aids down. The _ratatatat_ of that stupid gun felt like a fucking jackhammer drilling into his _skull_.

Struggling to regain his senses, Clint didn't realise Nat was already talking until she was about halfway through. He only caught the words "shot" and "cover" which didn't help anyone.

But she was already gone, crouched at the edge of their wall and clearly preparing to go over edge, guns blazing. It wasn't a bad idea, actually. Clint could see the logic. Any kind of return fire was better than none and buckling under the attack and getting backed into a corner wasn't even an option for them.

All in all, it was a decent, strategic, well thought-out idea.

But Clint had a better one.

He caught her by the straps of her backpack before she could go anywhere. Her head whipped towards him, eyes flashing with irritation until he let her go.

"Wait," he yelled above the thundering rain of bullets. The total waste of ammo almost made Clint cringe. These guys were no professionals, that's for sure. "Gimme a gun. I got a plan."

Nat only took a few seconds to process that, frowning. The hesitation was understandable considering the last time Clint said that everything had gone to shit. But this time, in the end, he didn't even have time for an explanation.

Something went sailing over their wall, just a little too big to be debris. It's landing was inaudible but Nat's head snapped towards it like it had exploded on impact. Her eyes widened and then she was pulling her hoodie up to cover her mouth and nose. She pressed one of her guns into Clint's hands and giving him a shove to get him moving.

Clint didn't have long to be confused because the canister began to spew gas, thick and white and burning. Fingers fumbling, he hurried to cover his own mouth but it was too late. The exposed skin of his hands and face was already on fire, his eyes screwed up, irritated and watering. Someone was grabbing his wrist and tugging him off in another direction and he was so disorientated he had no choice but to let it happen.

Rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands, Clint found he had been dragged into a multi-storey carpark, his vision blurred by unexpected tears. "What the hell was that?" he asked, who he knew to be Natasha, trying to stop the stinging pain in his eyes. He turned his aids back up knowing that lip reading in this state would be even more impossible than usual.

"Tear gas," Nat replied, her voice strained. Clint could see her leaning heavily on one of the support columns a few feet away. "There's gotta be a weapons supplier in town. That's the only way they could get their hands on it. Police use it for crowd control."

A cough or two later and Clint was straightening up, his eyes no longer watering as bad as they had been. He brushed the dust off his coat and walked towards her. "A supplier would explain how they got their hands on that fucking machine gun," he huffed, still a little peeved about how fucking over the top it all was. "But Nat, this shit is way too overpowered to bring out for just two people. They're small time thugs and this is their trump card. I mean, they're blowing their whole hand on us. It doesn't make sense unless..."

Now that he could see her properly, Clint realised the gas had affected Natasha far more than it had him. She'd had more bare skin on show, her arms pink with irritation and her hands rubbing furiously at her eyes. "Unless they know who we are," she coughed out, her voice tight and hoarse. "Unless they were warned we would come."

He spat on the floor, getting rid of all the grit and bitter chemical taste. The gang - or 'Niebieskie Węże' as they called themselves - weren't idiots, Clint had to give them credit for that. They had smoked them out nice and good, got them right where they wanted them. Defenceless fish in a barrel. But not for long. Not if Clint could help it.

"Wait here, I won't be long," he muttered before sprinting up the nearby car ramp to the next level of the carpark, ignoring Nat's whisper-shout of 'where the _hell_ are you going?'.

"Anyone comes through that door you shoot them dead, okay?" he yelled over his shoulder as if she needed the reminder.

The second storey looked identical to the first as expected. Clint ran over to the large openings in the walls overlooking the streets below and grinned. Just as he'd thought, from here he could quite clearly see the small huddle of men that made up the Niebieskie Węże. Which roughly translated into 'Blue Serpents'. It was a stupid name, in Clint's opinion. Sounded like a fucking 90s boy band. But then, the gang wasn't exactly known for their genius. Hell, they were so small they weren't known for anything really.

There were nine in total. Clint knew he could pick a few of them off, make things a bit easier for Nat when they finally got through. He clicked the safety off Nat's pistol and took careful aim at a tall, lean man at the centre of the group, pulling the trigger without a second thought.

Nothing happened.

"Really?" he groaned under his breath, checking the clip and finding it empty. "Son of a _bitch_."

He turned his back on the street and paced into the centre of the level, shaking his head. Well there went his bright idea. Nice plan, idiot. What the hell was he going to do now?

Clint got the odd feeling that he was missing something. Something right in front of his face. He was about to shrug it off and move on when he finally noticed the blood.

Oh. Well that explained it.

The dark trail was smeared and inconsistent, almost as though the thing leaving it was being dragged along. Curious, Clint followed it, moving quick and quiet as possible. It went straight down the side of the carpark before coming to a stop behind one of the cars. As he came closer Clint's aids began to pick up a male voice; whimpering; crying.

The guy was curled up beside the car, his eyes wild with fear and cheeks damp with tears. His hands were pressed tight to his leg, blood seeping through his fingers and Clint couldn't imagine how long he'd been up here. Getting caught up in the crossfire like this, it could be anything from a few minutes to an hour.

A scarf covered the guy's mouth but Clint could still see the curl of blue and black ink brushing his cheekbone; the trademark tattoo of Niebieskie Węże . It was a complicated black and blue dragon that went from the member's collarbone to their cheek.

Clint thought it was a bit of a stupid idea considering how distinguishable it was, but hey, it wasn't his problem.

The boy - and he was a boy, no older than 15 or 16 now that Clint got a good look at him - stiffened when Clint's shadow fell over him, his eyes widening in panic. His fingers left his leg in favour of grabbing a baseball bat that lay by his side, giving it a wild swing in an attempt to batter Clint's brains out.

Clint snorted, dodging the attack with ease, and when another came he caught it mid-swing and twisted it out of the boy's hands. The boy's face glistened with sweat, his breathing coming hard and furious. He made a last ditch effort, surging forward, fists flying until Clint put the bat in the centre of his chest and shoved him back against the wall.

"Gez man, chill out," Clint muttered, not really expecting an answer as he tried to survey how bad the kid's leg was. Not that the kid was making it easy. "Are you always like this?"

"Skurwysyn," the boy spat out, blonde hair falling into his eyes even as he tried to hold back his tears.

Clint nodded, yanking the scarf from around the kid's mouth despite his protests and wrapping it around the bullet wound, tying it tight as possible. "Yeah, sure, kid. You got it."

An ear-splitting boom suddenly spilt the air. The foundations of the building shuddered worryingly, the ground beneath them shifting enough to almost send Clint on his ass. When the ground finally settled the steady beat of running feet could be heard coming towards them, clear as day. Clint swore, snatching up the kid's baseball bat and stepping forward, ready for a fight.

His panic proved unnecessary. Nat's familiar face appeared as she ran up the ramp, looking a damn shade better than she did a few minutes ago, her face flushed red with the exertion.

"They're coming," she announced as she came closer. "I blocked the entry but it won't hold them for long."

Clint grinned cheekily, holding his bat at the ready. "We can take 'em."

"Where's your gun?"

He shrugged. "Empty. Would I be holding this thing if it wasn't?"

Nat let out a groan, her hand coming up to pinch the bridge of her nose. "Then no, we can't. I'm empty too. I - there's not much we can do but-" She let out a reluctant sigh and shook her head. "I'll just have to blow the place."

Clint dropped his bat in his shock. "Wait, you're going to blow the _what?"_

But Nat was already moving, slinging the backpack off her shoulders and taking out a handful of silver discs, each small as a bottlecap. When Nat rubbed her thumb over them they sprang to the size of saucers, LED lights blinking white. She ran between the support pillars that, let's face it, was never built to withstand much; placing one on each. They somehow stuck to the concrete without adhesive, the little lights now glowing a bright, electric blue.

"Hey you can't just blow up a building! It 'draws unwanted attention', remember?" Clint yelled after her, quoting something she'd said to him back in Argentina because she was being a hypocrite and he wasn't letting her get away with it.

When she ignored him, Clint walked over to glare at one of the little glowing discs and frowned at the StarkInc. logo that stared back at him. Nat never mentioned owning any StarkTech before, he thought, a little confused.

A moment later Nat came back to his side, panting a little, eyes still tinged red from the gas. "We're done. Any ideas on how to get out of here?"

He stared at her for a beat before shrugging. "Only one place we can go," he said, pointing a finger to the ceiling like a dweeb. "Up."

She nodded, slinging her backpack over her shoulder. "Lets go."

Clint only got a few steps before he remembered the kid, lying a few feet away. Scared, bloody and in pain. Completely unaware of the grizzly fate that awaited him.

He thought of the people in Argentina. Civilians. Innocent and unaware, just like that fucking kid. He still felt a twist of guilt when he thought about them. Maybe the boy was a chance for him to make it right.

God knew the last thing Clint needed was another civilian death on his conscience.

There was no real choice here. Not for him.

"Fuck, wait. Wait. Goddamnit," he muttered under his breath, turning back.

"Clint, where the hell are you going," Natasha hissed. "We don't have time for-" But Clint waved her argument away, knowing she would go on whether he said something or not.

He ran back to the boy who was still letting out those little whimpers of pain through gritted teeth, his face now an unhealthy grey. The kid looked like he might pass out any second.

"C'mon, buddy. Time to go," Clint said, hooking his arms under his knees and his back, lifting him bridal style. The boy screamed in the agony of it, his breathing harsh and ragged with terror and the new pain. His hands scrabbled at Clint's face and arms, his body too weak with blood loss to wriggle out of his hold.

"Jesus, be quiet," Clint muttered, doing his best to pick up to a run. He was all too aware of how little time he had to work with.

The boy didn't pay him any attention, saying something in Polish that Clint wasn't even certain was a coherent sentence. He was babbling nonsense, his eyes rolling into his head as he pleaded, fresh tears in his eyes. The jolting of Clint's running was only making things worse it seemed.

"Yeah, yeah I know it hurts, I'm sorry. Shhhhh man, please," he found himself whispering, trying to keep the boy as steady as he could as he tore up the second car ramp to the roof.

Nat was already at the edge, one foot on the ledge, looking down at the street. "We've got three minutes, come on!" she yelled over her shoulder at them before she had to do a double take. Oh boy, he was in trouble. Clint could see the disbelief, the fury that blazed in her eyes, her fists clenching tight. She jabbed a finger at the boy. "Who the _hell_ is that?"

Clint shrugged helplessly. "I -" He paused, gasping for breath because carrying a dude and running for your life at the same time was surprisingly difficult. " - I don't know. Couldn't leave him."

"A civilian? Are you fucking kidding me?"

Shouts and pounding feet and isolated gunshots echoed up from the car ramp opening and Clint paled, looking at Nat with pleading eyes. "Please. Escape now. Talk later."

Nat glared at him but turned away in favour of pulling yet another fancy fucking gadget out of her rucksack. God was there anything she didn't have?

This time it was a thick metal cylinder that she shook violently before pointing it in the direction of the building next door. The end of the cylinder exploded, revealing a grappling hook-esque head with a reel of wire attached. It sailed through the air and into the open window Nat had aimed at, the wire stretching tight like a zip-line.

Why the fuck had he never heard about all this shit before? All the weapons, all the opportunities, all the James Bond jokes he hadn't even been aware of. Did Nat not think it would be useful for him to know?

"You can't jump with him. It won't hold the extra weight," Nat pointed out as she set up the line, something akin to triumph in her voice that irritated Clint more than tear gas ever could.

She was right though. The wire was as thick as his thumb, clearly made for only one person at a time and the kid would never make it on his own.

Fuck. Clint hated it when she was right.

"Then I'm not jumping."

Nat looked at him like he'd gone crazy, and yeah, maybe it was a little justified this time. "Yes, you are. And you're leaving _him_ here."

The boy whimpered, almost like he could understand what was happening. But when Clint looked down at him his eyes were squeezed shut, a sheen of sweat coating his pale forehead and his lip caught between his teeth. "I'm not leaving you anywhere," he reassured him even though he was 90% sure the boy didn't speak any English. "Nat, there's gotta be another way."

Nat glanced at her watch and then over Clint's shoulder to where men poured from the car ramp and onto the roof. More and more and more. Fifteen at the least. There were too many for the small gang of felons they'd been told the Niebieskie Węże were. No. They were so much more than that. Better prepared for their attack than Clint had ever given them credit for.

Sirens pierced the air. Oh how late they were.

"Thirty seconds, Clint. We don't have _time_ for this. Drop him and jump right _now_ ," Nat demanded and then she was gone, already swinging herself across the line to safety.

With one final glance over his shoulder at the crowd of advancing bastards Clint let out a groan. "Oh fuck it," he muttered, adjusting his grip on the kid who let out a dry sob when it jostled his leg. Clint ignored him, focusing on unbuckling his belt and wrapping it around the zipline. He didn't even have the time to hesitate.

The kid let out a terrified squeal as they went over the edge, his fingers digging deep enough to leave bruises on Clint's shoulders. Clint held his breath as their combined weight sent the wire dipping low, groaning under the unexpected strain.

They hung there for a few terrifying second, all eyes fixed on the wire as it let out painful squeals of complaint. The boy's grip on him had become almost frantic, like he thought Clint was going to let him fall. Which, given the circumstances, was fair.

But somehow, beautifully, against all odds, the line held.

Clint let out a soft shuddering breath of relief and started to move.

The ride was slow and painful, Clint's muscles aching, straining to keep them both alive. _Fuck,_ this was _way_ harder than he'd thought it would be. His breathing came hard, his face flushed red. Clint could feel his hands sweaty against the leather, the danger of slipping and falling to their deaths higher than he would care to admit.

Although it wasn't until about halfway through their journey that shit _really_ began to go sideways.

The line began to jerk. Bouncing and shuddering in a way that it had no right to. It was almost like... it was almost like there was _another weight on it_.

Clint struggled to look around, the twist of his body doing nothing to help his grip on his belt or the jolting of the line. But by the time he finally managed it was only to see the startled look on a middle-aged thug's face before the line finally snapped.

They dropped like stones. Clint's heart stopped. His stomach leapt to his throat. Could he survive a fall from this height? He wasn't sure anymore.

It was only by some miracle that Clint's hand caught the end of his zipline. He grasped it tight and held on for dear life.

Their trajectory came to a painful end with a jolt as the wire finally went taunt. Clint felt the yank of his shoulder threatening to pop out of place, but it was worth it. So, _so_ worth it. Because they were alive. They were fucking alive and they were swinging inwards, straight towards an open window that looked oh so inviting.

They missed it by about 5 inches, Clint slamming into the windowsill with a grunt of pain, holding on by his fingertips, if only barely.

Nat suddenly appeared above them and he could have cried in relief. They had to pry the kid's death-grip off his body to get him inside, the boy crumpling to the floor, sobbing in relief as soon as his feet met solid ground.

Clint would have followed him but his sweaty fingers struggled to find grip on the ledge. He tried again to pull himself up but found his arms had no strength left for it, shaking with the strain of his bodyweight. Fuck. Fuck, this was not a badass way to go out. Come _on_ , he'd made it _this far_.

His feet kicked out, desperately searching for a foothold, but no, he was slipping. He held his breath as he slid further down, gravity doing its job in the worst way possible.

Nat appeared in the window above him and for a heart stopping moment she kept her arms folded, unwilling to help.

"Nat?" he gritted out desperately, fear sending adrenaline shooting through his body. He knew he had only seconds left before he fell.

Finally a hand shot out to grasp a fistful of his jacket and pull him up and into safety. Natasha's furious expression was not exactly what he would expect of someone who had just saved his ass for the hundredth time. Or, come to think of it, maybe it was.

Clint blinked at her stupidly, trying to clear the adrenaline fuelled haze of his head. "What took you so long?" he muttered, his voice slightly slurred. She pulled him closer; their faces close enough that he could see the pinkish rash the tear gas had left behind on her skin.

"I should've let you fall," she growled and then let go, not caring when he sank to his knees like the pathetic piece of shit he was.

The kid was muttering in Polish again, a little more coherent than before. "Dziekuję, dziekuję, dziękuję…" he breathed into the carpet of what Clint thought might be a hotel of some sort.

Nat had gone, and Clint didn't have the energy to go after her.

He hardly noticed when the carpark beside them finally collapsed in a series of deafening explosions and a cloud of dust. The collapse rocked the ground like an earthquake. A decorative vase filled with flowers fell from the table nearby, shattering and spilling water all over the rug.

The hotel windows blew inwards with the force of the blast - showering them both with glass and debris.

Clint wasn't overly bothered, honestly.

It wasn't the worst thing to come out of today.

Fast food and a clean motel room was quickly becoming Clint's idea of heaven.

Well, it would be heaven, if Nat didn't look like she wanted to beat him over the head with a blunt object. That tended to detract from his good mood, just a little.

Clint was the King of ignoring the elephant in the room. He had slumped back on his bed, a box of rather delicious Chow Mein in his hand and was enjoying the quiet for a while. He was watching a news report on their antics earlier in the day, a sort of morbid fascination keeping his eyes glued to the screen, when the TV was turned off.

"Hey!" he complained, his mouth full of food, but one look at Nat's face said it all. She'd had enough. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand but swallowed, muttering, "I was watching that..." moodily under his breath.

"Have you always been this stupid?" she asked coldly, folding her arms. "Or did your last concussion give you brain damage and I just didn't notice?"

He snorted, putting his food to the side, until it was very clear she wasn't joking. "Aw, c'mon Nat, it wasn't so bad."

"Wasn't it?" she snapped. "Really? Because I distinctly remember you putting both our lives on the line because some civilian _brat_ you took pity on. How is that 'not so bad'?"

He scowled at her, more than a little pissed off with her bullshit. She didn't get to talk down to him like that. Like he was some kind of fucking child. "Well, what the hell was I supposed to do? Leave him there?"

" _Yes_! That is exactly what you should have done," she yelled, her hands thrown up in exasperation. "He did nothing but slow you down and put us _both_ in danger."

"Well, I fucking slow you down all the time, right? Why do you keep me around if I'm such a bumbling fucking idiot?" Nat scowled and opened her mouth to answer but he wasn't done. "You know what? While we're on the subject. When the fuck were you going to tell me you had all that StarkTech on you, huh? Did you not think that was something you could fucking mention?"

"That doesn't matter. I used the last of what I had to get us out of the impossible situation _you_ created."

"Don't you fucking dare pin this on me, Nat. None of this was my fault," he demanded because fucking hell he wasn't going to just sit there and take the blame for this. "Where the hell did you even get all that shit? Were you ever going to tell me?"

"It was none of your business what I had," she bit out, defensively.

"We work together of course it's my fucking business." But now Clint's mind was working on overdrive, catching up with his mouth. Sure, he was mad but not as mad as she was. Her fists were clenched at her sides, her body in a defensive stance like she was ready for a fistfight. Which hey, given their history wasn't exactly off the cards.

 _What if she cracked again, right now?_ he thought as he remembered the last time they fought, the unhinged fury on her face. _What if this time she manages to kill me for good?_

He shook his head as though to dispel the thought, feeling almost guilty. Nat wasn't crazy. She wasn't some unhinged psychopath who would lash out at any moment. She'd been forced to tell him only a fraction of what she dealt with. There was no point in looking at her different because of it.

That was why he was still fucking pissed.

"I got those months ago, from Stark's warehouse in France. What does it matter?" she bit out, her arms folded across her chest. She was dressed in baggy pyjamas and her hair was tied back in a ponytail but that didn't detract from the intimidation tactic one bit.

Clint frowned, slightly taken off guard by the admission.

France. She'd stolen a haul of weapons from Stark's warehouses in France. But that wasn't the only thing she'd taken.

He put his hand to his ear, unconsciously fingering the aid there. "You broke into Stark's warehouse for these?" he asked, still unexpectedly surprised by the revelation. After all he had known they were stolen; that was a given. But the extra effort just - he hadn't expected it from her. Especially not from months ago, back when they were still practically strangers.

She avoided his eyes, instead looking to the ground. "I was already going there. I needed new weapons and the - the aids were a last minute decision."

She didn't explain why. Clint hadn't really expected her to.

They lapsed into silence. Clint lay back on his bed, allowing the tension that had built up in his body to release with a sigh. He scooped up his forgotten, now kinda cold Chow Mein and went right back to eating it. He grabbed the remote and switched the TV back on like nothing had happened between them. It was a good act, he thought. But the awkwardness that hung in the air still lingered.

"Why did you save him?" Nat asked at last. Sitting back on her own bed, her food still untouched. "He meant nothing to you."

The TV bustled in the background and Clint shrugged, looking down into his noodles and shoving them around with his fork. "Bet he means something to somebody."

"He wasn't your responsibility."

"S'just a kid. I found him. That makes him my responsibility."

She shook her head incredulously. "You care so much about these people."

"And that's a bad thing?"

Nat didn't answer, instead at last taking a sip of her milkshake, almost as an afterthought. Her eyes narrowed in on his face, searching for something and Clint didn't even want to know what. He, for his part, tried to keep his eyes trained on the TV, allowing her to psychoanalyze to her heart's content.

"It's a weakness," she finally said, so quiet his aids struggled to pick it up. "It'll get you killed."

He snorted, stuffing another forkful of noodles into his mouth. "I'll keep that in mind. And I'm sure you'll be there to say I-Told-You-So." He shifted uncomfortably, aiming for levity. This was not a fun conversation. He would like it if this conversation never took place, thank you.

She rolled her eyes and threw a pillow at him.

"What? Am I wrong?" he laughed with his mouth full, catching the pillow and launching it back with ease.

Nat smiled back at him, the last of the tension bleeding away from her features. She looked better that way. Younger.

As much as he loved to see her happy, Clint found his eyes drawn to the TV behind her. The news channel was once again going over their stunt with the carpark, but something wasn't right.

He watched as the English subtitles ran across the screen and the smile dropped away from his face. "Nat," he said distantly, giving her a nudge

"What?"

"That can't be right, can it?"

Her head whipped around to follow his line of sight. She too read as the reporter claimed there had been no casualties in the attack. No bodies. No injured. Nothing.

"Impossible," Nat whispered, her eyes wide. She and Clint shared a look of abject shock before they were both up and moving at the same time. Clint threw Nat her empty pistols and she threw him the jacket he'd thrown over a chair near the door. They gathered their shit quickly and in silence, packing rucksacks and duffle bags with what little they had. They had never been so efficient. It was fucking weird.

Clint didn't quite know what it meant that 15 men survived such an explosion. It didn't make sense; his mind could hardly wrap itself around it. But never had there been a clearer sign to get out of Doge than when the locals start acting bombproof.

"You got everything?" he asked, slinging his own rucksack over his back.

She nodded, checking her phone to find out where their next job would be. Clint wished they didn't have to leave so soon, he'd could enjoy the kick-back and relax thing for another day or so. But fuck he didn't plan on pushing his luck.

"Let's go," she said, trying to smile but the news was clearly still troubling her. "We have a plane to catch."

He tried to smile back but couldn't find the energy, the door closing behind him with a bang.


	11. Chapter 11

****Jan 27th, 2010****

"I still don't think this is a good idea," Nat declared, her voice muffled through the closed bathroom door. "You don't have a clue what you're getting into."

"It's been two weeks, Nat. Two fucking weeks of surveillance for one goddamn target," Clint groaned, his arm thrown over his eyes as he tried not to fall asleep on the couch again. "Trust me, I'm prepared. Hell, I'm way too fucking prepared if you ask me. Wanna know the way this woman takes her coffee? What shade of hair dye she uses? Cause I'm your man."

"That doesn't tell me you're prepared. It just tells me you don't know how to do surveillance properly," Nat replied, a light note of teasing in her voice that made Clint smile despite himself. It had been a long time since he'd heard her in such a good mood. She'd been snappy since they'd landed.

He reached over to the nearby table and took a deep sip of his coffee, sighing in content. Truth be told, England was pretty fucking good so far; no one made eye contact and the weather wasn't overly hot or overly cold. What more could he ask for really?

"I know, I know. Klara Sokolov, professional lie detector, yadda yadda, I know what I'm doing." Honestly, Clint didn't half buy the 'tell your lies just by looking at you' story, but Nat seemed pretty sold so he didn't get much chance to argue.

Nat's laugh echoed through the door, light and heart-warming. "Of course you do." The sound of something being sprayed could be heard loud and clear, which was impressive because Clint's aids were fucking him about recently. He thought something or other had got into the insides, maybe sand or water, but whatever it was, it was pissing him off to no end. "We can show our faces at the party today and then do the hit next week instead. I'm not going to rush this."

"Nat, seriously. If I have to spend another goddamned week watching that bitch read magazines and drink tea all day I'll jump out the fucking window."

"Now, don't go getting ideas." The bathroom door swung open to reveal Nat in a striking, navy dress that swept down to the floor and pooled elegantly at her feet. "And I'm sure you'll survive one week."

Jewellery glittered at her neck and ears, attracting the eyes to the elegant slope of her neck and the sharp dip of her collarbones. Clint's eyes were glued there for a breathless moment, tracing that sharp curve and biting his lip. Nat had dyed her hair a few days back, now a rich chocolate brown and it fell from the intricate braid at the back of her head to brush her shoulders. It was really fucking hot in this hotel room all of a sudden, which was weird cause Clint swore the A/C was on.

Cute curls falling to frame her face and glasses perched daintily on her nose, Nat looked like a completely different fucking person. It was fucking freaky so, naturally, the first thing out of his mouth was, "Who'd you steal all that shit from?" Because Clint was smooth like that.

Nat acted like she hadn't heard him, pulling out a pocket mirror - from a purse that Clint _knew_ she hadn't owned yesterday - and checking her makeup. "No one who will miss it, I assure you." Came the answer finally after several long seconds.

Clint couldn't keep his eyes off her, and he was glad she wasn't looking at him to notice. Awkwardly, he stood from the couch, trying to straighten out the creases in his rented suit as best he could. There was little point, he supposed, he would be standing next to Natasha all evening, after all. Anyone would look like trash when they're standing next to _that_.

"Sokolov likes young, attractive men to keep her company. Maybe if you can keep her distracted long enough for me to make a move we won't have to wait, but I'm not guaranteeing anything. I would rather wait," Nat stated, artfully applying lipstick between her words.

"Awww, Nat. You think I'm handsome?" Clint teased, batting his eyelashes and trying to ignore just how fucking happy the thought made him. His stomach clenched uncomfortably, an odd warmth spreading through his chest. It was probably nerves, he told himself, but even he only half believed it.

"If you squint," Nat snorted, a hint of a smile at her lips though her eyes never moved from her mirror. "Now put a tie on and stop fishing for compliments."

Clint made an offended noise but threw his tie around his neck anyway. He wrinkled his nose. He felt like the collared dogs they made jump through hoops in the circus.

In a show of dramatics, he threw himself back on the fancy-ass couch, sprawling himself across it like he wouldn't be attending an upper-class party in the next twenty minutes. Who fucking cared anyways? Not him, that's for sure.

Nat closed her mirror with a snap, her eyes, the green emphasized with dark makeup, raking over his body without pause. She hummed in approval, "You clean up better than I thought."

Clint couldn't help the satisfied smirk that curled his lips. "That so?"

She caught the look on his face and she shook her head fondly. "Don't go getting an ego, Barton. You're insufferable enough as it is."

He let out a full-blown laugh at that, his head thrown back against the couch. He clutched at his chest in faux-pain. "Oh Nat, how you wound me."

She shook her head, a reluctant smile gracing her features. Fuck, how he loved her smile. He saw it so much more often now and yet it was never enough. She moved to go back to the bathroom but he called out to her, "Hey, by the way, I've been meaning to ask. What's this?"

He held up the little yellow and white pill he'd found in his suit pocket earlier that morning.

Nat froze, the smile slipping from her face as her eyes fixed on that pill. Clint regretted asking.

"It's a precaution," she said eventually, and if Clint hadn't been looking right at her, he would have thought nothing was wrong. "Sokolov is the best there is at what she does. If she catches you, and it's more than likely she will, then you can't let her take you alive."

And wow, if that didn't kill the fucking mood.

He looked at the little capsule between his fingers thoughtfully, letting it roll down into his palm and settle there. Being an assassin, Clint thought about death a lot. How it would happen, what it would be like, whether hell would be hot or cold. But, weirdly enough in the past few months, he hadn't been thinking about how good it might feel.

Clint Barton had found something to live for. Many things in fact. And even if they were just small, inconsequential little details to everyone else, they still meant everything to him.

The satisfying rush of a clean, perfectly executed shot; the comfort of having thick clothes on his back and food in his belly; the thrill of the chase; the dozy relaxed haze that filled his mind when the adrenaline had all bled away; Nat's small, reluctant smile when she thought he wasn't looking but he was.

Clint had a lot to live for. All those little moments of bliss hidden in such a dark and chaotic life. So the thought of cutting all of that off on _purpose_ just because of some crazy lunatics - he couldn't even acknowledge the idea. "Nat, you can't be serious."

"I'm serious, Clint," she replied, her voice having gone so cold and defensive that it threw him for a second. She stood with her back ram-rod straight, tense as a bowstring. "This isn't a game, or a joke, or whatever else you seem to think it is. The people she works for have no mercy, no compassion, no humanity. And if you let them take you away you will wish every single fucking day for the rest of your life that you'd killed yourself when you had the chance."

Clint felt completely blindsided. He didn't know what to do with that. How the fuck were you supposed to reply to that. Sadness and anger were raging war within him, ripping him apart as he tried to meet her eyes. "I uh..."

"If they got to you I couldn't -" She cut herself off and turned away before he could be sure, but Clint thought her eyes were brighter than usual.

He swallowed, trying to force his voice to sound normal but in the end, it came out too strained to be convincing. "The people she works for, are they the same ones who..." He fell silent, not sure how to finish that sentence.

She ignored him, her arms folded. Her back was to him now and he could see that her dress was backless, pale skin smattered with freckles in plain view all the way down to the small of her back. Clint hated it. He hated how vulnerable it made her look, how naked she seemed. It would be so easy to aim a knife between those shoulder blades, directly into her heart. Too easy. "It's a cyanide capsule," she said softly, her voice smaller than Clint ever wanted to hear it. "You bite down on it and it'll all be over. I have one too. It's quick at least."

Clint's eyes fell back to the little pill in his hands before he put it back in his pocket, his face solemn. "That's a big ask, Nat. You know that."

"But will you do it?"

Now it was his turn to ignore her, a heavy silence hanging between them for a few long seconds. "Look, I'm sorry for fucking around, alright?" he finally gave in, unable to stand the tension any more. "I get how serious this is and I won't fuck it up. That's all I can promise for now."

Clint had already made up his mind, he wouldn't take that pill no matter what happened. Caught or no. Nat probably knew that without him saying anything.

She let out a frail ghost of a laugh. But when she spoke her voice was steady. "Is that Clint Barton apologizing? Surely I'm hearing wrong."

"Yeah, yeah. Don't get used to it."

Natasha reached up to push her glasses up her nose, turning to face him once again. Though she looked so different, some things had stayed very much the same and Clint found himself fixated on those tiny details. He could still see the tiny, raw cuts on her knuckles, the dark shadows of bruises that marred her jaw bone under all that makeup. Their last job had been fairly hands-on and Nat still bore the marks of a hard fight, the swelling having gone down only two days ago.

The tight knot in his chest eased a little at the familiarity of it.

Nat rummaged in her purse for a minute before handing him a small plastic box. Reading the label, Clint frowned up at her, confused. "Contact lenses? What are these for? I'm deaf, not blind unless you didn't get the memo."

"The less recognizable you are, the better," she argued, reaching down a hand to pat at his hair until he batted her hand away. "Brown eyes, gel your hair a bit and a few touches of makeup. You're practically a different person."

Clint rolled his eyes with a disbelieving huff. "Yeah right. I'll believe it when I see it."

When they walked into Sokolov's stately home half an hour later, Clint had to admit, Nat had more than delivered. He felt like a completely different person.

For one, this suit was not something he would normally wear. Hell, he was boiling in the fucking thing, the trousers just small enough to cause discomfort in all the important areas. He had to pull on the collar every now and then to stop himself from melting into the carpet. The contacts, as shown on the packaging, had turned his eyes a very unattractive shit-brown and his hair was slicked back with so much fucking gel it looked _wet_.

No shit he looked like a different person. He looked fucking disgusting.

If Clint caught his own reflection in the mirror he was likely to throw up, or maybe die of shame, whichever came first.

"Come on," Nat said, a hand covering her mouth to badly suppress a laugh. "Stop complaining. It isn't _that_ bad."

He raised an eyebrow at her. An eyebrow that was decidedly darker, bushier and an inch or two closer to the other one than he remembered. "Isn't it?" he deadpanned moodily. "I thought I was meant to seduce Sokolov, not break all her fucking mirrors just by looking at them."

Nat shook her head, a tiny laugh escaping her lips no matter how she tried to keep a straight face. Clint's dark mood lightened just a little. "Don't worry. You're young and rich, she'll take what she can get."

Clint snorted as they entered the room in which the party was being held. It was a huge ballroom. And he meant a _huge_ fucking ballroom. The room was easily two or three times the width and height of the Big Top. A live band was twanging away on the other side of the room and it was so far away Clint couldn't hear a single note. The whole thing was so over the top that Clint could hardly see the stone angles at the top of the thick columns of marble keeping the roof up.

It left him speechless for a minute - the sheer wealth of the rich would never fail to astonish him. Maybe it was a shame he couldn't appreciate it. That it was hard for him to see the display as anything but a - well, a waste. It was all a huge fucking waste of money and time in his opinion.

Who needed extravagant homes and ballrooms full of art no one really looked at?

How many street kids could've been fed on this dime? How many debts could've been paid off? How many lives could've been saved?

It made him sick, how Klara Sokolov was richer than God himself, and yet she hoarded it all away for herself.

Clint supposed it was difficult for rich people like her to understand why those who wanted dinner couldn't just ring a bell.

As they mingled with the crowd of men in clean-cut suits and women in glimmering gowns, Clint started to fidget. He couldn't help it really, he'd just never felt so out of place. The fifth or sixth time he reached up to adjust his tie and tug at his collar Nat's hand stopped him.

The room was loud too. Clint's hearing aids were turned up as high as they could go so he could hear Natasha but they kept picking up other things; the clinking of glasses or the scrape of knives on plates or the obnoxiously loud laughter nearby and amplifying them instead of what he really wanted to hear. He was getting a bit fucking annoyed with it, honestly.

"Sokolov is over there," Nat whispered, the glass of champagne in her hand shaking a little as she took a sip. She'd gone ashen. Clint followed her gesture over her shoulder to a woman in her early 60s, dressed in a gorgeous white gown that sparkled in the flattering light of chandeliers. But mostly she blended in with the rest of the posh, rich crowd. Nothing very remarkable about her, in both appearance and personality, as his surveillance had proven.

Sokolov was surrounded by a sea of guests, flowing gowns and black suits and _money_. Clint narrowed his eyes. "How the fuck am I supposed to get her attention in the middle of _that_?" he hissed.

Nat rolled her eyes. "Figure it out. If you can't do it today -. But don't forget. No making a -" The rest of what she said was cut off by a piercing whine of feedback. Clint huffed in frustration but nodded anyway. He got the gist and asking her to repeat it was too humiliating to be worth the effort.

Then Nat was gone, the plan already set in motion. He needed to get Sokolov alone so Nat could come in and finish the job however she planned to do it. He could do that, no problem.

He moved smoothly through the crowd, shoulders back and chest out like he had a fucking right to be there. Rich people were confident and charming and polite to the point of parody. Especially rich _English_ people. He could do that. He accidentally shoulder-checked a waiter on the way up and didn't acknowledge it, just walked on. Oh yes, there it was, he could feel it. He was truly entering the skin of an absolute asshole. This was going to be _brilliant_.

Strutting up to Sokolov like a fucking peacock would've been funny if Clint didn't feel so goddamn uncomfortable in this place. Fish out of water? That was the understatement of the fucking year. He felt that if these people found out how much was in his bank account they would leap away from him in disgust like he was a lump of dirt on their $5000 shoes.

When he reached Sokolov she was already talking to a man a head or so shorter than Clint, but easily four times more handsome. His face looked like something chiseled out of stone it was so angular and symmetrical. However, just as Clint was about to move away, realizing just how hopeless his situation was, Klara Sokolov's eyes caught his. To his amazement, her face lit up in pleasant surprise. "And who are you?" she purred, curiosity and a note of excitement in her voice.

The sharp-faced man shot Clint a dark glare as he said his goodbye to Sokolov, pissed off at being interrupted, but she didn't notice. She only had eyes for Clint, raking up and down his body in appreciation. Clint wasn't really sure how to react to such naked _hunger_ , especially in public. With a crook of her finger, he came closer, a confident smirk on his face that couldn't be further from how he really felt.

There was nothing subtle about this. She knew exactly what she wanted here. He clinked his glass with hers when she held it up.

"Clint Barton, ma'am," he said, trying to keep his voice low and his body language relaxed. His heart pounded loud in his chest. He could do this. He could do this. He could do this.

"Hello, Clint," she said, her smile borderline predatory. "Are you enjoying the party?"

He noticed she didn't introduce herself. But then, she didn't need to. Everyone in this room knew exactly who she was, or who she claimed to be, and that was how she liked it.

"Immensely," he replied, a playful grin on his face as he decided that a balls to the wall approach was probably the best way to go about this. "But I could think of a few ways my night could get better." He thought, fuck it, and threw in a wink for good measure.

Sokolov threw her head back and laughed, loud and brash. Far too loud and brash for the people standing around her, in fact, who shot them both looks of displeasure over their champagne glasses. But they were the English upper-class, it wasn't like they were going to _do_ anything about it. Clint ducked his head smiling like he was embarrassed by all the attention. All this fake smiling was giving his cheeks a workout.

"Oh you're funny," she chuckled, her expression a little more calculated as she studied him over her glass. "Your accent is American, correct?"

Clint had no idea how she'd caught that in such a loud room. "Yes, ma'am. Born and bred."

She let out a contemplative hum. "Then what brings you here?"

He shrugged, unsure how to answer that without lying. "I - I travel a lot. This is just my most recent stop, I guess." The pride he felt at coming up with an answer would've shown all over his face had he not looked down again in the pretense of shyness.

This was going good. Really fucking good actually.

Or at least, that's what he thought, until out of the corner of his eye he saw a security guard walk past, leading a short brunette towards the door. Her dress was navy, and her expression was ice cold fury. Nat.

Clint felt his insides freeze over as he watched her disappear through the door, a guard's hand at the small of her back.

That wasn't part of the plan.

 _That really wasn't part of the plan_.

His internal panic was interrupted by Sokolov standing very close and wrapping her hand around his wrist. "You're interesting, Mister Barton. Would you like to go somewhere a little more...private to discuss your travels?"

She had a smug smile on her face. _Fuck, that was too fast. This was way too easy_ , he thought, not that he wanted to push his luck here. But he shoved down his fear regardless, stretching his mouth into a big smile. "I'd love to." And then he followed her swishing skirts like so many boys had before him.

"You don't mind if I ask you a few questions, do you? Only I like to know a little about my guests and I don't recognize you," Sokolov said as she led him into her room, shooting him a winning smile over her shoulder. He couldn't see any suspicion there but Sokolov wasn't stupid. She knew he didn't have an invite, that he was a potential threat.

Clint had to admit, she was attractive. She carried her age well, a natural beauty with an oval face, high cheekbones, and startling blue eyes. Her hair was dyed black to hide the grey at the roots and her lips were plump with botox, but it didn't come off as fake. Clint knew she had put a lot of money and into her appearance and he could appreciate on an aesthetic level that it had worked.

"Sure, ask away," he replied, grinning at her, all boyish charm, while inside his stomach churned sickeningly. The way she looked at him was probing, prying. It was an uncomfortable spotlight to be under when he didn't feel the same lust she did.

"Sit," she ordered, gesturing towards a luxurious leather couch, in front of which stood a mahogany coffee table. There were several delicate china cups laid out, ready for several guests, with a pot beside them. Clint had no doubt it was filled with tea. Sokolov drank that shit by the gallon.

She saw him looking and chuckled under her breath. "I'm afraid I've gone a little native. It's honey and lemon, my favorite." She patted her cheek. "Keeps me young, you know?"

"Not like you need it with a face like yours," Clint replied, internally cringing. He'd never been the best at flirting. Sokolov didn't seem to mind, she even laughed. Clearly charmed by the compliment no matter how bad the delivery.

After a moment she sat beside him, curious eyes studying his face. "You're wearing contacts," she commented as she poured herself a cup of tea, the golden liquid stark against the white china. To Clint's surprise, she poured him one too. "Hard of hearing and of sight, are we? You really got the short end of the stick there."

Clint swallowed his shock at the observation and took the cup when she handed it, nodding. "Yeah, hard of hearing and long-sighted. I don't wear contacts really. It's only recently that I've -"

He was cut off by a knock at the door. Sokolov frowned, but invited them in anyway.

In came a security guard, dressed in a designer suit with a gun holster at his waist. "Madam Sokolov. If I could speak to you outside for a moment."

Sokolov excused herself and stood. When the door finally shut behind her Clint tried not to melt into the couch with relief. Klara fucking Sokolov. God, that woman was an experience.

His eyes darted around the drawing room, searching for anything that could be used as a weapon. Sokolov had security checks and metal detectors at her door so neither he nor Nat were carrying anything. He felt exposed without them, more defenseless than he would care to admit.

Scanning the room, none of the art on the walls looked heavy enough to knock someone out, which was a shame. They were so ugly Clint felt he'd be doing the world a favor if they were 'accidentally' destroyed. But he couldn't see anything sharp enough to do any substantial damage either. And if he hid one of those brass candlesticks up his sleeve there was a chance Sokolov might notice something was up. Maybe he could jab that teaspoon in her eye?

Clint looked down at the cup in his hand and he was just wondering whether stabbing her in the neck with pottery would work when an idea suddenly struck him.

His hand immediately went to his jacket pocket, fingers finding the tiny pill and pulling it out. He sighed in relief, holding it over Sokolov's cup when he heard the door handle rattle. _Fuck she's coming back_! his brain shrieked.

With quick fingers he twisted the plastic capsule apart and let the powder rain down into the golden liquid, being careful it all went in before sticking it back in his pocket once more. The door was open wide enough Clint could see Sokolov's painted nails curled around the handle. His heart pounded almost painfully in his chest.

"Oh don't worry, there's nowhere to go. I'll come down when I'm done here," she promised someone and then Sokolov was back in the room. She looked lighter, just a fraction happier, as though the guard's news had been the best she'd heard all night.

"I'm so sorry about that. Duty does call." She had an accent but Clint couldn't quite make it out properly what with his hearing aids being so fucked. She lowered herself down beside him, licking her lips, red as wine. "So where were we? Are you enjoying the tea?"

"It's good," he agreed, lifting the drink to his lips and trying to keep his cool.

"Tell me, do you come from money, Mister Barton?"

Clint was thrown for a moment, the question out of fucking nowhere. What did she want to hear? What was the right answer? Was there one? "Uh, no, I grew up surrounded by animals." He chuckled nervously. "Not the richest beginnings, I'll admit."

Sokolov nodded thoughtfully, eyes boring into his. "Honest boy, I like that. I'm afraid your suit gives you away, honey."

Clint held his breath when she picked up her cup and took a deep sip with a sigh of content. "So what brings a man like you to a party like mine? I'm sure it's not your scene."

She didn't say it in a condescending way, it was very matter-of-fact. Clint had to wrench his eyes away from her lips around the cup, hope swelling in his chest. Maybe this would actually work.

"Well...you're kinda right," he breathed, a coy smile on his face like he was embarrassed to admit it. His eyes dropped to the cup in his own hands, desperately trying to pull himself together and _think_. "I wanted – I kinda came looking for you, ma'am."

He kept his head down like he was trying to hide a blush while really trying to disguise the raw fucking panic that was no doubt all over his face. Why wasn't she dead yet? Nat had said that shit was quick. What if she didn't drink enough for it to work? What if the hot water canceled it out? Oh fuck, he missed Nat watching his back.

The plan was out the window and he knew they only had one shot at this. If Nat wasn't coming, and the poison didn't take effect, Clint knew he had only a few options left. He resolved to finish Sokolov with his hands around her slim neck if he had to. And he fucking hated that plan.

Barney's voice rang in his head like it hadn't in years. ' _You don't hit a girl unless she hits you first, got it? You got that in your thick skull, Clint? You ain't gonna turn out like dad, are you? Are you?! Oi, are you fucking listening to me? You don't hit girls. Ever.'_

Finishing her like that would make him worse than his father had ever been. Even worse than Barney, who could never follow his own advice.

A bolt of fear and nausea shot through Clint, so acute it left him dizzy. The teacup in his hand had started to tremble so he set it down before Sokolov noticed. He needed to focus.

A manicured finger snaked under his chin, the fake nail scratching against his skin as she lifted his head up to look at her. She smiled like the cat that got the cream, smug, content and ever so hungry.

"Is that so, honey? And why's that?" she asked, her voice soft and sensual, her breath ghosting over the shell of his ear. He shivered and her smile widened.

Nat had been wrong. This was a game. This whole fucking thing was a game. Flirting, seduction and sex, pleasure and pain. It was all a game to her, and he had no choice but to let her win.

"I wanted to take you out sometime," he got out breathlessly. _With a long distance sniper rifle_ , he added mentally. "I've, well, I've heard a lot about you and I just -"

"How...sweet," she sounded just as surprised as she looked, eyebrows raised. She smelled sweet, sickly and artificial. "Don't you think I'm a little above your budget?"

He met her eyes and raised a challenging eyebrow, tongue darting out to lick his lips. "I can make it work if you can."

Her eyes followed the movement hungrily, pupils blown wide with lust. "Then let's skip the foreplay, farmboy." And then she grabbed a handful of his tie and yanked him closer, kissing him hard and rough and possessive.

Clint's surprise only lasted a moment, and then he was kissing her back. His mind was a jumbled mess. He didn't know what to do with his hands, his legs, his mouth. Lipstick smeared across his mouth and he could feel a ridiculous nervous panic building in his chest like he was a fucking blushing virgin. What was his problem? This was beyond expected. He had played into this, he _wanted_ this from the beginning.

He'd kissed girls before, way back in the circus days, but this was so different. So, so different and he didn't know why. When her hand came up to hook around his neck and pull him closer he _loathed_ it. It made nausea churn in his stomach. He didn't want her hands touching him. When she straddled him he wanted more than anything to shove her off, but couldn't.

He was so fucking tense, no longer able to focus on keeping his body language relaxed. If he pushed her off, then he had failed and all this work, all this time had been for nothing. But the poison wasn't working quick enough. She was warm, squirming and very _alive_ in his lap and he couldn't stand it much longer.

Then suddenly she pulled back, breathing hard. Her lipstick was a little messed up and her hair disheveled, but it was her expression that didn't fit the rest, a frown marring her pretty face. "Now that's a shame." She actually sounded disappointed.

Her soft hands were still on his body, one curling around his forearm and the other caressing his cheek. "What- what do you mean?" Clint managed.

"I mean you're a liar, Clint Barton," she replied coolly, her eyes dark, and Clint froze beneath her. "You don't want me."

"I – what? Of course I want you! Who wouldn -"

Her nails dug into his forearm with a shocking strength, her face alarmingly close to his. He could see the offense and anger in her eyes and his heart skipped a beat. "Don't take me as some whimsical fool, Barton. Call me old fashioned but I don't fuck people who don't want it. So what is it you really want here? Is it money? Drugs?"

Clint had practically stopped breathing. Oh _fuck_.

He had faced men twice his height and weight and still hadn't felt as intimidated as he did right this moment.

She raised an eyebrow, any glimpse of flirty playfulness gone from her face. "Maybe I should ask little Natalia instead, hm?"

Clint couldn't duck his head to hide his emotion anymore and the shock in his expression made her laugh. A new interest ignited in her eyes like she was seeing him properly for the first time and Clint felt overwhelmingly trapped, panic building in his chest as her weight stopped him from using his hands to push her away.

"So you're the one that broke her?" she whispered, so close to his face he could feel her breath brush his cheek. "You don't look like much. I've always wondered, how did you do it?" She paused, thinking. "Torture, perhaps? But that can't be. There's nothing we didn't train her to withstand; unless you're hiding something special up your sleeve." Her hand trailed up his bicep as she spoke and his hair stood on end.

"I didn't do a fucking thing to her," Clint snarled through gritted teeth.

He jerked his head back as far as he could when he felt her nails lightly scrape the skin at his neck. "Don't worry, honey. There'll be plenty of time for me to ask you questions and you'll answer them all. I knew Natalia would have a man trailing after her but..." Her hand ran delicately along his jaw and he had no choice but to let her, his skin crawling with revulsion. "I didn't expect you."

Clint shuddered but somehow in the car crash that was his thought process he got his mouth working again. "I don't trail after anyone. Her name is fucking _Natasha_ and you don't know anything about her. Now get the fuck off me," he spat, furious at his vulnerable position.

He tried to shove her off him but she once again kept him down with her hands and her thighs, completely unfazed by his attempts. The pure fucking strength in those slim limbs only comparable to what he'd seen in Natasha. He couldn't move.

She scrutinized him for a moment, looking far too pleased. "Oh honey, I know everything there is to know about little Natalia Romanova. I made her into what she is today."

Clint froze, his eyes snapping to her face, searching for any sign of a lie there. But all he could find was amusement, sick black amusement as her hands glided over his body in a featherlight touch. Anger, hot and acidic finally reached boiling point and he struggled harder. He wanted to scream at her. He wanted to make her bleed. He wanted to punch her in the fucking teeth and break them. But he couldn't do any of it. He couldn't move more than an inch. This wasn't possible. She shouldn't be this strong.

"Oh, you're adorable," she purred, wiping her lipstick off the corner of his mouth with her thumb. He jerked away from the touch and she pouted like he was a puppy with an attitude problem. "You know, Clint. I should be thanking you. You brought the last Black Widow home at last." Her hand patted him on the cheek and Clint glared back at her with hatred in his eyes. "I do appreciate that."

In a last-ditch effort, Clint tried to headbutt her in the face. It was an ugly jolt without finesse but it was all he had left in him. But before it could connect Sokolov's hand closed around his throat, an impossible strength stopping the movement dead. His breath was abruptly cut off, eyes widening in horror. "Now, let's have none of that," she scolded.

"What the - what the fuck are you?" he choked around her grip.

She raised an unimpressed eyebrow. "Please, you didn't think they would let a _human_ raise a Black Widow, did you?

Terror shot through him at the realization, his face draining of color. She wasn't human. She wasn't fucking human.

But if she wasn't human, then what was she?

Up this close, Clint could feel Sokolov's breath ghosting over his cheek. There was a pink tinge to her skin that hadn't been there before, almost red like a rash. He imagined it was the demon inside her fighting its way to the surface.

"I can't believe you thought I would want an ugly fucking hag like you. I can't believe I let you touch me. You're evil. You're a fucking disgusting bitch," Clint snarled, his words dripping with hatred and revulsion. She could hear the truth in them. He'd hit the nerve he was aiming for.

An expression almost akin to hurt flashed across Sokolov's features, a brief crack in composure before it hardened into an emotionless slate. An expression so familiar it made him sick.

Clint meant to use the insult as a distraction, gathering up all his strength so he could get the fucking witch off and kill her. But Sokolov must've seen the intent in his eyes because the next thing he knew a cuff had been clapped on his right wrist, the other cuff clamped around the coffee table.

She slid from his lap and batted his hand away carelessly when he lunged at her, leaving him grasping at air. The anger and desperation boiling inside of him only flared hotter when she tutted him. "Now, now, Mister Barton. Play nice."

She had Nat. Sokolov was the reason Nat could hardly fucking sleep at night and now she had her again and Clint had just let it happen. Nat was going to take that pill. Clint needed to find her, he needed to stop her. Where would he be without her? What would he do if she was gone forever? He couldn't picture it.

"You could use some of our training yourself," Sokolov continued, so unbelievably fucking calm. She fixed him with a glacial stare, those blue eyes mentally ripping him apart, watching him bleed. Clint yanked at his cuffs with a grunt. "Who knows, you may even survive the introduction."

Clint spat at her feet. "Fuck you, bitch."

She wrinkled her nose. "How charming. I think it's time I pay dear Natalia a visit, don't you? It's been so long," she whispered, smug and triumphant because she had fucking won. After everything that old hag had won out.

Clint pulled so hard at his cuffs that pain flared at his wrist and the heavy table screeched an inch across the floor. Expensive china cups rolled off and broke on the floor. She smirked. "Oh don't worry, honey. I'll be back for you."

Clint watched her with eyes narrowed at her retreating back. Something about her wasn't right. Something...

Sokolov only managed two purposeful steps towards the door before she had to pause. She was unsteady in her heels, swaying just a little. In the end, she had to reach out a hand to hunch herself over a chair. Clint could hear her labored breathing from here. She put her hand to her head, groaning through gritted teeth, still struggling to draw breath.

Her skin was cherry red.

"What - what is this?" she gasped, and for the first time that night there was no authority, no power behind her voice. It was quiet and scared; weak with fear. "What have you done?"

She twisted around, moving forward until her hands could grab handfuls of his jacket and pull him close. "What did you do you bastard?" she bit out, her voice cracking pathetically on the last word. There was a true terror in her eyes, something he hadn't expected; the familiar fear of death. Her breath in his face smelled sour, like spoiled fruit.

Her chest heaved, like a child having an asthma attack, but Clint made no move to help. He couldn't help her now. Sokolov begged and pleaded with him. A little rich girl terrified of dying wheezing out empty promises and threats, trying to bargain with the grim reaper.

She fell on top of him when her legs gave out, a deadweight twitching and seizing like she had been electrocuted.

It lasted minutes. Long, excruciating, horrific minutes. And Clint could do nothing but sit there and watch as her body convulsed and jerked and dragged in ragged gulps of air that never seemed to be enough. Her mouth hung open but she didn't say anything. She was too far gone to speak. Too far gone to beg anyone for anything anymore.

Clint found he couldn't look away from her eyes. Pale blue and full of so much terror, so much raw fucking fear that she was crying. Her mascara drawing black watery tracks down her cheek.

He had seen death before. Hell, he'd caused death before. But it was never like this. He had never had the stomach to listen while someone begged and screamed into him while they died. He had never enjoyed the art of torture like Nat seemed to. A bullet, a knife, it was all so much quicker. So much quieter. So much easier to deal with.

He watched the light leave those blue eyes.

Her vice-like grip on his lapels loosened and she was falling from the couch, the room chillingly silent without the frenzied sound of her choking on air.

By the time her body slid to the floor, Klara Sokolov was finally dead.

All Clint could think, fighting down a violent surge of nausea, was: _Nat was wrong. There was nothing quick about that._


End file.
